


avada kedavra, my love

by gothyringwald



Series: Percival Graves, Private Auror [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Making Out, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Original Character(s), Physical Abuse, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: Mary Lou Barebone, a No-Maj and head of the Second Salem church, is murdered by magic late one night. Hours later, a wizard turns himself into MACUSA and the case is closed. But Auror Tina Goldstein isn't convinced he did it, so she asks Percival Graves, friend and private auror, to investigate. Graves is reluctant to take the case but he soon gets the feeling something isn't right and he can't let it go. When he meets Credence – a young man as enigmatic as he is beautiful – Graves starts to fall for him. But as he unravels the mystery, he finds Credence is tangled up in the web of murder and deceit.





	1. the killing

**Author's Note:**

> Second to musicals, film noir is my favourite movie genre and one day I wondered if the magical world has private aurors, like there are private detectives in the muggle/no-maj world. Naturally, I immediately thought of Graves as a private detective a la film noir, not least because Colin Farrell [looks very handsome in 30s/40s getup](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/159992086730). And, thus, this fic was born! Ha.
> 
> Title is inspired by the film _Murder, My Sweet_.
> 
> Rating is for future chapters. Tags updated as they become relevant. (No spoilers, but the abuse tags are not for anything that happens between Graves and Credence!)
> 
> Bits and bobs:
> 
> ♡ [Aesthetic edit](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/160384567005/avada-kedavra-my-love-a-gradence-noir-au-mary)  
> ♡ [Soundtrack](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/165041270567/avada-kedavra-my-love-a-gradence-noir-au)  
> ♡ [A beautiful aesthetic edit made](http://graves-expectations.tumblr.com/post/165149495633/im-a-shamus-graves-says-with-a-wink-credence) by the incredibly lovely [graves_expectations](http://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations)  
> ♡ [Mood tag](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/tagged/akml)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from the Stanley Kubrick film of the same name.
> 
> Thanks to [almostannette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette) for helping me decide which tense to write this in.

Rain falls in unrelenting sheets, splattering on the pavement, pattering onto awnings and trickling down the sides of buildings, coating the city in a shining, slick sheen. It beats a steady tattoo on the rickety umbrella Percival Graves holds above his head as he rounds the corner, collar turned up against the weather. He steps off of the street and into the rundown building that houses his office. A building this size shouldn't fit where it is, wedged between a municipal library and a laundromat, but it does, charmed so that you won't see it unless there's magic in your blood. 

Graves shakes off the umbrella – it's used purely for show, an Impervius charm does all the work to keep him dry – before placing it in the holder in the dingy foyer. A dusty lampshade swings overhead, yellow light ghosting over the cobwebs and dust. Graves walks three flights of groaning stairs to his cramped, shabby office. He could apparate, but he likes to complain about the walk. Not that there's anyone to hear him.

His office is second on the left; 'Percival Graves, Private Auror' is stencilled in bold black lettering on the frosted glass window in the door. The light in the hall flickers and Graves mutters to himself about faulty spellwork, then steps inside and takes off his hat and trenchcoat, levitating them to the lopsided coatrack by the door. Streetlights shine through the venetian blinds, casting striped shadows over the rug. He bypasses his desk and makes for the Chesterfield that's seen better days, throws himself onto it, one leg hanging off the edge.

He closes his eyes, crosses his hands over his stomach, and lets out a sigh, but is soon disturbed by an impatient tap-tap-tap at the office window. He groans. A message is waiting for him, the pigeon carrying it hopping and cooing, outside on the ledge. He throws the window open with a flick of his wand, letting the bird in and unravels the message, walking to his desk, this time, and sitting heavily. The bird follows and he absently gives it some seed that sits in the top drawer to his right, bag split and spilling into the warped wood. Water puddles around the pigeon's feet where it stands, preening while it waits, on Graves's desk.

'Meet me at the usual place at 8pm,' the message reads. 'It's urgent. Don't be late.' Urgent is underlined three times. It's signed Tina Goldstein. Graves sighs and thunks his head onto the desk. He looks wistfully to the bottle of Firewhiskey sitting beside the bag of birdseed in the drawer. 

His meeting with a somewhat satisfied client – satisfied with Graves's work, but not the photos laid before him – was interrupted by his less-than-satisfied wife who was not impressed by Graves's compromising photographs of her with her secretary. Graves's fee didn't cover defusing blonde bombshells, and when the wife started throwing hexes his way, Graves had apparated out of there, narrowly escaping a horn tongue hex. Most of his cases don't end so dramatically, but he spends his days chasing cheating spouses, finding runaway kids who don't want to be found and is rarely the bearer of good tidings. He can't be surprised when a few hexes get thrown his way.

He rubs a hand over his face and wonders what Tina Goldstein could want. Their paths have crossed on so many of Graves's cases, now, that they are almost like colleagues. Despite the auror's propensity to play it by the book, she seems to view Graves as something of a mentor. It's not a role he courts, but Tina's a good woman, and a better auror. The kind who won't let up if he doesn't meet her, tonight, so he reluctantly forgets the Firewhiskey and the Chesterfield, for now.

He pushes away from the desk, wheels of his chair squeaking, creaking, and tells the pigeon he's not sending a message back. The bird coos and flaps away, and Graves closes the window with another flick of his wand. He sighs and gets up, puts on his hat and coat, tying the belt tight around his waist.

He makes it to their meeting place, an alley behind Graves's favourite automat, just minutes before the clock strikes eight. The rain has eased up but a breeze blows through, biting cold, bringing the scent of rotting food scraps and stagnant water with it. Graves suppresses a shiver. The alley is dark and seemingly deserted but out of the corner of his eye he sees the wall shimmer. 

'Hello, Tina,' he says moments before Tina Goldstein materialises, ending her disillusionment charm. 

'You know, you're wasted as a private auror,' she says by way of greeting, stepping around a trash can that has been knocked over, spilling its contents on the grimy floor. Its open maw spews fishbones, stripped heads of lettuce and mouldy bread onto the ground like a mournful still life.

'Save it, Goldstein, I've heard that spiel before.' Graves shoves his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat. 'What do you want? I had a hot date with a cold sandwich tonight.'

Tina rolls her eyes and produces a file from within her coat. 'I copied this,' she says. 'I want you to take a look.' Her dark hair is unfashionably straight, wide legged trousers beneath her coat, damp at the hem where they brush the ground, just that little bit too long. 

Graves takes the file and looks the contents over. 'Why are you bringing this to me?' His tone is offhand, belying his surprise. Tina isn't the kind to copy a confidential file, too strait-laced to flout the rules like that, then bring it to a private auror, no matter how much she's trusted Graves in the past.

Tina steps closer, voice low. She points to the photo clipped to the top left of the file. A woman with a severe hairstyle and a more severe face stares out of the small, still photograph. 'A dead woman, a No-Maj, killed by magic.'

'I can read.' The honk of a car-horn echoes down the alley, a popular No-Maj tune on a wireless and the bustle of the automat kitchen drift out of the open door a few feet from them.

'She was a Second Salemer.' Tina spits the words out. Graves doesn't blame her. ' _The_ Second Salemer, Graves.'

'Like I said, I can read.' He hands the file back. 'And it says it's solved.' 

'That's what Picquery thinks but...' She trails off with a sigh. 'You've always told me to trust my gut. Well, my gut says something is wrong. I don't think we've got the right guy.'

'That's Picquery's problem. I've got important cases piling up.' He takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair, fixes his hat back in place. 

Tina scoffs. She seems to steel herself, sucks in a deep breath, then her shoulders sag. She looks as tired as Graves feels. Her tone turns pleading, eyes wide. 'Please, just look into it. I can't afford to, not now. And Picquery won't listen.'

Graves sighs, long-suffering, and rubs his ear between his thumb and forefinger. He holds out his hand. 'Fine, I'll look into it. But I don't do this out of the goodness of my heart, Goldstein.'

Tina bites her lip as she hands the file back. 'How many dragots a day is it, now?'

Graves looks at the mended hem of Tina's trousers, the coat that's a few seasons old and says, 'We'll sort out the payment later. And tell your sister she can make me one of those apple strudels.'

Tina laughs, sounding relieved. 'Thank-you.'

Graves sighs, again. 'Don't mention it, kid.'

__

Graves apparates back to his office, and slaps the file down on his desk. He mutters 'lumos', guides the light into the green Bankers lamp by his hand. It pulses gently. He doesn't bother taking his coat off, and leaves his hat on his desk. He pours two fingers of Firewhiskey into a mostly clean glass, freshens up a stale sandwich into something edible, and looks the file over properly. Mary Lou Barebone. A religious zealot, daily decrying the evils of magic, spouting vile words about witches living among innocent No-Majes, killed with magic. Graves huffs. In death she got her proof. But it's already been covered up by MACUSA, swept under the rug, and hopefully her wish for witch hunts gone with it. Is that what this...Graves scans the one page report again for the name of the wizard who confessed. Is that what Wilmer Jones was hoping would happen when he, apparently, killed her?

Graves has walked past the Second Salemers on his way through the city more than once. On his worst days he's had to fight hard to keep from hexing the Barebone woman. He can't say he's sorry the dame is dead, but to kill her would take a lot of hate, a lot of determination and a lot of power. It's hard to imagine Jones had that in him, looking at the photo attached. Wiry with dim scared eyes, wide expanse of forehead, withered rosebud of a mouth. He looks more like a fall guy than a murderer, but Graves knows that doesn't count for much.

Weary bones pop and crack as Graves rolls his neck, grimacing around a mouthful of sandwich that's still more stale than fresh. The bread is thick and dry against his tongue, and he washes it down with Firewhiskey as he reads on. Mary Lou was found by her younger daughter, Modesty, late Tuesday night. She thought her mother was just sleeping but she never woke up. The girl was obliviated after she spoke to the aurors, of course, as was her sister, Chastity, who said she hadn't seen anything. Graves taps the page and hums. From the information gathered, and the confession, it seems that Jones is the right guy, but Graves feels what Tina did. Something isn't right. Something he can just about taste.

It was solved too easily, for one thing. Jones walks in off the street, giving himself up, just hours after this Barebone woman was found. Why bother leaving the scene at all? Doesn't make sense. And with a broken wand, no less, so they couldn't even check which spells he'd cast. 

The file is thin, for another, which isn't suspicious by itself. But even Jones's confession is just a few lines – he followed Mary Lou home, waited until it was dark and struck her with a killing curse. He'd had enough of her hateful words, hearing them nearly every day, he said. Graves turns the page over, but that's all there is to it. Maybe Tina hadn't been able to copy the whole file, Graves thinks, but the crime scene photos are definitely missing, and he wants to see them.

__

'Hello, sweetheart.' Graves tips back his hat as he leans over a desk in the MACUSA files department. He fixes the witch on the other side with his most charming smile. She doesn't smile back.

'Mr Graves,' she says, cold as the dank air around them. 'How did you get past security?'

Graves tuts. 'Is that any way to greet an old friend, Agatha.'

The lighting is dim but Agatha's black hair shines under it, pale skin glowing. Green eyes glower from behind pointed pince-nez, resting on the bridge of her snub nose. 'Ha. Some friend you are. I set you up on a date with my brother and you never call him back.' Agatha stacks some papers and stands, but stays on the other side of the desk.

'Right,' Graves says. He rubs his ear. He knew there was a reason he'd been staying away. 'You mean, he never got my message? I've been heartbroken all this time, waiting for his reply.' He snaps his fingers. 'I knew I should have just floo'd him.'

Agatha waits a beat, one neat eyebrow arched. 'And what's my brother's name?'

He stares at her, blankly, grasping for a name but before he finds one she says, 'That's what I thought.' Agatha rolls her eyes. 'What do you want?'

Charm is getting him nowhere, so he switches to the direct approach. He straightens up. 'I need to look at a file for a closed case.'

'Which one?' Agatha steps around the desk, long hips swivelling, spilled into a tight wool skirt. The effect is mostly lost on Graves. 

He crosses his arms and leans back against the desk. 'Barebone.'

Agatha regards him over the top of her pince-nez and taps her fingers on her forearm. 'OK, but on one condition.'

'Anything, sweetheart.' Graves smoothly slips his smile back on.

The witch looks him up and down. 'Don't remember my brother's name.'

__

The original Barebone file isn't any thicker than the copy Tina gave Graves but it does have the crime scene photos that were missing and an address for Wilmer Jones. In the photos, Mary Lou Barebone is slumped over a wooden kitchen table, one arm folded beneath her head, the other stretched across the threadbare tablecloth. A cup sits by her wrist, steam rising. Her dress is simple, dark, with a high collar. Her eyes are closed, face slack. The kitchen is spartan, and reveals little, other than a confirmation of Mary Lou's dedication to austerity.

Graves taps the photos on his desk, sets them down and rests his forehead in his hand. The photos haven't told him much more than the thin file had, so he decides to pay Jones's apartment a visit. It's in a tenement, one room with little more than a flea-ridden bed, one chair, a table and a basin. Sounds from the other tenants filter through the thin walls: babies crying, kettles whistling, somewhere down the hall a couple yelling. 

There's a cupboard tucked in the corner but it reveals the same as the rest of the apartment: nothing. No photos, no documents, nothing about Wilmer Jones. The aurors working the case may have already been here, taken anything relevant, but if they have, there's nothing in the file. Graves steps cautiously into the hall, knocks on a few doors, but all the neighbours say the same thing: Jones kept to himself, they don't know anything about him, sorry, the stove's boiling over, they have to go. He knows when to push it and when to leave it so he thanks them and, frustrated, returns to his office, once again.

The whole building is silent and still. Graves is certain he's the only person here, this time of night. It could get lonely, but Graves likes it this way. The Firewhiskey sits on his desk, where he left it, and he pours another glass, knocks it back, relishing the burn in his throat. The glass clinks against the now empty bottle as he sets it down with a sigh.

He looks at the time. It's too late to go to the church where Mary Lou lived – he doesn't want to spook her daughters, a strange man turning up after dark – but it's not too late for the Blue Mandrake. One of the classier magical nightclubs, though Graves would hesitate to say the same for its owner, Gellert Grindelwald. A German emigre who first came to the States in the early '30s, he started out in California, then headed east a few years later. He's one of the wealthiest wizards in America and as sleazy as they come. But his suits are expensive and anyone who's anyone wants to be seen at the Blue Mandrake. Graves tends to avoid the club, when he can, doesn't want to give Grindelwald any more dragots, but there's no better place to wet his whistle and get information at the same time. 

He levitates the Barebone file, along with the copy from Tina, to the filing cabinet by the window and apparates to the pigeon coop on the roof. The damp scent of freshly fallen rain mixes with birdseed and pigeon. The birds strut and preen and coo on their perches. Graves scribbles out a quick note telling Tina he thinks she's right, Jones isn't their man, then attaches it to a plump grey pigeon. He watches it fly into the night then freshens himself up with a few charms; the Blue Mandrake's dress code doesn't allow for rumpled. Moments before he leaves he gets a strange feeling in his gut. He's not sure if it's the Firewhiskey or foreboding, but he's caught the scent of a mystery and he can't let it go. No matter where it leads him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, sorry for no Credence, yet. He makes an appearance next chapter! And, I think, every chapter after that. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought. I'm kinda nervous about this one. And you can [always find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/). :) I do love getting messages there.
> 
> The Blue Mandrake is a play on _The Blue Dahlia_ , the club in the film of the same name. Mandrake was, aside from its use in Harry Potter and general use, a Victorian term for gay men (I couldn't find out if it was offensive or not, so I wasn't sure about using it, but I felt like Grindelwald would like it, either way).
> 
> I've seen people use pigeons, instead of owls, in other fic and I liked that. I'm not sure who thought of it first, though, so not sure who to credit on that front. Sorry! If it was you, what a great idea!


	2. angel face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Otto Preminger's film of the same name.

The Blue Mandrake is an upscale magical nightclub in the heart of Manhattan, catering to the elite and social climbers alike. It's one of the classiest joints Graves has ever been in, but not the kind of place he'd frequent even if it weren't owned by Gellert Grindelwald. He did bring a date here, once, when he still cared about things like impressing his dates enough to see them more than once or twice, but that was years ago, now. 

Outside, a shimmering sign reads 'The Blue Mandrake' in a cursive script with a mandrake flower that blooms on a loop behind it. It casts a blue glow over the entrance and over Graves as he makes his way inside. A young witch with bouncing red curls in a skimpy black satin number takes Graves's coat and hat with a wink and leans close when he tells her his name for the coat-check charm. She smells like gardenias and tobacco. He thanks her and straightens his jacket and tie before going in. 

The air is warm and the jazz that filters through from another room is cool. Large mirrors hang on the wall in the front bar, making the narrow room seem bigger and brighter. Glamorous witches in fur stoles and glittering costume jewellery, wizards in sharp suits and neat hair, sit along the bar, or stand nearby sipping champagne and cocktails. Graves squeezes through the crowd, making a beeline for the main dining room. 

Candles float above each table, arranged around the dance floor, casting hazy halos over the chatting, laughing patrons. On the stage, front and centre, a band in sleek tuxes plays smooth jazz as couples shuffle about, holding each other close. The bar is less populated in here, only a few witches and wizards perched on stools, cocktails floating to their waiting hands. It's the bar Graves wants and to see Jacob Kowalski, the bartender. Jacob's a man that everyone likes and, more importantly, talks to.

'Kowalski,' Graves says, sliding onto a stool, smoothing back his hair. 'Good to see you.'

'Never thought I'd see you here, again, Graves,' Jacob answers, charming a towel to wipe out some glasses. The man is as jovial as ever, neat moustache stretching across his face as he smiles.

'I felt like a change of scenery,' Graves says, catching his reflection in the mirrors that line the wall behind the bar. He looks tired, worn down, but he knows he still catches plenty of eyes. 

Jacob merely smiles and asks him what he wants to drink. Graves thinks of the three glasses of Firewhiskey he'd already had in his office and says he'll have another. Jacob flicks his wand and a bottle of top-shelf floats down and pours itself into a tumbler, which settles on the bar before Graves. It's smooth going down and Graves makes a note to invest in a decent brand for his office, next time.

He decides to wait a while before asking Jacob anything to do with the case, and they strike up a casual conversation about Quidditch while Graves nurses his Firewhiskey. 

'You're a good man, Graves, but you don't know what you're talking about,' Jacob says, pointing a finger at Graves, when he mentions the Fitchburg Finches have it in the bag for the final. 'I'll bet you ten dragots that the Sweetwater All-Stars take home the cup.'

Graves smirks. 'I'll take that bet, Kowalski.' Jacob only grins and wipes down the bar.

A young man approaches and stops by the stool one over from Graves, fingers curled over the edge of the bar. He's tall, at least taller than Graves, lean and jaw-achingly beautiful, with dark hair sculpted in asymmetrical waves. His profile is sharp, aquiline nose, square jaw and high cheekbones, yet there's something soft about him. 'Hi, Jacob, could I get a cherry soda before I go on, please?'

'Sure thing.' A glass of fizzing soda, with a red and white striped straw, floats over to the young man who plucks it nimbly from the air.

His suit is expensive, light brown check, slim in the waist. He's wearing a loud tie with a diamond encrusted tie bar, and wingtips that gleam in the dim light, shined so Graves could probably get a close shave by his reflection in them. Graves swivels around on his stool to look at him better. 'Hi, angel,' he says, startling the young man.

'Oh, hello.' Dark almond eyes turn on him, curious and wary.

Graves slips his best smile on. 'What's your name?'

'Um, I'm Credence.' He glances at Jacob, who nods as if to say 'He's OK', and awkwardly sticks out his hand.

Graves takes it, holds on a little longer than necessary. Credence's skin is warm and soft and makes Graves's stomach do things it hasn't done in years. He clears his throat. 'Graves,' he says, slipping his hand from Credence's.

'Just Graves?' Credence asks as he moves around the stool in between them and sits, angling toward Graves. Their knees are nearly touching.

'Percival Graves,' he answers, inclining his head.

Credence takes a sip of his soda. 'I haven't seen you here, before.'

Graves rests an elbow on the bar. 'I'm on a case.' The band changes to a livelier tune; some couples leave the floor but the younger ones take the opportunity to stretch their Lindy Hop muscles. 

Credence tilts his head. 'A case?'

'I'm a Shamus,' Graves says with a wink. Credence bites his lip, brow furrowed, so he adds, 'A private auror.'

Credence's eyes light up and he sets his glass of soda down. 'A detective. Like Bogart, in _The Maltese Falcon_?' He pauses, breathless. 'But with magic?'

Graves nods, knocks back his whiskey. 'You like No-Maj movies, angel?'

'Yeah.' Credence sways closer. Graves catches a whiff of his cologne. It's light, vaguely floral, and smells as expensive as his suit looks. Graves leans forward. 'You work here?'

'Uh, yes, sort of. I-I sing. Sometimes.'

Graves raises a brow. 'A crooner, huh?'

'I guess,' says Credence, biting his lip against a shy smile. He reaches for his glass but knocks it over, soda spilling over the counter and onto his suit. His cheeks turn pink and he looks at Jacob. 'Sorry. Can you, um, please?' He gestures to the mess.

Jacob waves his wand, says, 'scourgify' and everything is as good as new. A penny drops in Graves's head. He frowns. 'You're a squib?'

'Graves,' says Jacob, warning in his tone, as he pours another soda, and sets it before Credence. Credence only nods, looking at his hands, folded in his lap, dark lashes fanning over the ridge of his cheekbones.

'Nothing to be ashamed of, angel,' says Graves. 'But...' He pulls on his earlobe. Something about Credence being a squib doesn't sit right with him.

Credence's head snaps up. 'But what?'

There is a fire in Credence's eyes, now, that licks at Graves, leaves his mouth dry, throat tight. 'But nothing, angel.' He gestures to Jacob for another drink and shakes his head to clear it. 'Say, how about I take you to one of those No-Maj movies you like, one night, before you start here?'

Credence's face brightens, clear and open, but then it turns cloudy again. He swirls the straw around in his new drink. 'I don't think Gellert would like that.'

'Gellert? As in Grindelwald?' Something heavy and unpleasant settles in Graves's chest when Credence nods, a jerky motion. He whistles, low. 'Geez, angel. What's a sweet thing like you doing messed up with that guy?'

Credence takes a moment too long to answer. 'He looks after me.'

'If you say so, sweetheart.' Graves realises Credence never answered whether he would like it, or not, and a smile tugs at his lips. Credence's gaze lifts to meet his again and he doesn't look away.

The air practically crackles between them, and it's not from magic. Not the kind of magic that makes the trays of champagne and food fly through the air, or keeps the lights flickering in their sconces, anyway.

Jacob clears his throat and nods at the stage. 'Don't you have to go sing, Credence?'

'Oh,' says Credence, finally startled into breaking eye contact with Graves. 'Yes.' He stands and finishes his soda, Adam's apple bobbing in the long line of his pale throat. He puts the glass down. His eyes slide to Graves, all doe-eyed charm. 'Will you stay and watch, Mr Graves?'

'Wouldn't miss it for the world, angel,' Graves says. Credence gives him a smile he can feel in his hip pocket and turns away. There is the slightest sway in Credence's slim hips like he knows Graves's eyes are on him, but his shoulders are hunched like he's not sure if he wants to like it.

Credence leans toward the piano player, who nods as he whispers something, and then stands before the microphone. The pianist begins playing, a slow, sweet tune, her fingers sinking into the keys. Credence sways in time, tapping a foot, as the rest of the ensemble joins in. His voice is husky, makes desire bubble up, hot and twisting, before it sinks low in Graves's belly. 

' _My poor heart is sentimental, not made of wood, I got it bad and that ain't good..._ ' Credence sings, long fingers curled around the microphone stand. He looks over to Graves, more than once or twice, and their eyes lock. It's like drowning in honey.

Graves finally tears his gaze away from Credence when Jacob taps his shoulder and says, 'You'd better keep your eyes to yourself, Graves.'

'Because of Grindelwald?'

Jacob nods and Graves shakes his head. Credence wouldn't be the first innocent to be drawn in by the lure of this glitzy world. But Graves doesn't have to like it. 'Is he around tonight?'

'Yeah, in his office. Where he doesn't like to be disturbed.' There's an edge to Jacob's voice when he talks about Grindelwald that Graves can appreciate. 

'Won't he come down to see his boy sing?' Graves looks back to Credence, now. He's loosened his tie and a stray curl tangles over his forehead. His shyness has all but fallen away as he sings, a sultry sweetness taking its place.

Jacob shrugs, levitates a row of clean tumblers and coupes back into their racks. 'Credence sings every night.'

Graves thinks he would watch Credence every night. Then he thinks that the warm air, the dim lights and the Firewhiskey have gone to his head and he needs to get himself together. Still, he asks, 'Is the kid really a squib?'

Jacob shrugs, again, hands spread. 'Don't see why anyone would pretend to be if they're not.'

'Hmm.' Graves thinks about that and can't come up with a reason. He swivels around on the stool, reluctantly letting Credence out of his line of sight.

He drums his fingers on the shiny surface of the bar. 'So, what can you tell me about Wilmer Jones?'

'Never heard of him.'

Jacob answers too quickly for Graves to believe him but he leaves it for now. 'OK. What about Mary Lou Barebone?'

'Barebone?' Jacob's tone is too light. He's definitely holding something back. It's not like him, either; Jacob is one of the most honest people Graves knows.

'You know the name?' Graves leans forward, elbows resting on the edge of the bar, hands pressed against it. It's cool beneath his warm palms.

'I might,' Jacob hedges.

'C'mon, Kowalski, you owe me.'

This gets a laugh out of the bartender. 'I don't think I do.'

'Don't you? Well, I'll owe you if you tell me what you know.'

Jacob considers it a moment, then says, 'It's just...that's Credence's last name.'

The answer shoots through Graves like a stinging jinx. He hadn't figured Credence for being involved. But Barebone is not a common name, and Graves doesn't like coincidences. Before he can ask Jacob anything else, he has to tend to another customer and Graves watches, a little dazed, as he mixes up a sidecar for a brunette in a slinky chartreuse gown. She laughs at something Jacob says, shining white teeth and deep red lips. 

Graves looks at his hands, then turns back to the stage. Credence has lost his tie entirely, top two buttons undone, dark hair peeking out and sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat. Graves wants to press his lips there. He groans and rubs a hand across his eyes. How is a dead No-Maj, a Second Salemer no less, connected to this beautiful young squib, Graves wonders?

A flash on the mezzanine catches his eye. Gellert Grindelwald, shock of icy blond hair, adjusts his cufflinks, standing in a pool of light. There is a look in his eyes Graves doesn't like, dark and proprietorial. Graves has seen that look in men's eyes before and it never spells anything good.

He follows Grindelwald's gaze to where it rests on Credence, who has his eyes closed, lost in the torch song he croons. That strange feeling in Graves's gut surges up, again. Maybe it is just all the Firewhiskey, he thinks; he'll ask Jacob for a cup of coffee, when he's finished with the other customers. Black, and strong, to clear his head. But something tells him the feeling has nothing to do with being soused and, as he watches Grindelwald watch the younger man sing, he decides he to keep a close eye on Credence Barebone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read/commented/left kudos so far! I'm glad you like private auror Graves as much as I do. :) Feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter and, as always, you can find me on tumblr where my asks/messages are always open. :) <http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/>
> 
> I wasn't 100% sure which tag to use for Credence and Grindelwald's relationship in this that doesn't spoil anything. :S
> 
> Jacob is a wizard because no one else fit my vision of the bartender. 
> 
> This line 'Credence gives him a smile he can feel in his hip pocket...' is a paraphrasing of 'She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket' from Raymond Chandler's _Farewell, My Lovely_.
> 
> The song Credence sings is _I Got it Bad (And That Ain't Good)_. And I'm envisioning his look as a cross between young Frank Sinatra and Farley Granger in _Rope_ , if anyone's wondering.


	3. shadow of a doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos so far :) 
> 
> And thanks to [almostannette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette) for looking this chapter over for me and being my cheerleader. :)
> 
> The chapter title is taken from the Alfred Hitchcock movie of the same name.

Graves feels like he's gone three rounds with an erumpent. Head thick, throbbing, a filmy feeling all over his face and body, tongue gluey in his dry mouth. He silently curses himself for not taking his hangover potion before crawling into bed, last night. At least he made it to bed, he thinks, though he doesn't remember how. 

An empty Firewhiskey bottle sits accusingly on his bedside table, next to the lamp he left on all night. He remembers skipping the black coffee he'd promised himself, leaving the Blue Mandrake with a bottle of top-shelf tucked under his arm, and drowning his lust in alcohol, instead. He groans. The previous night comes into focus, and with it the face Jacob Kowalski had warned him away from. Credence Barebone. The beautiful squib with the sucker punch smile, somehow twisted up in this dead No-Maj investigation. Graves sighs and throws an arm over his face. 

The tapping he'd mistaken for the throbbing in his head becomes louder, more insistent and he draws back his arm, cracks open an eye. There's nothing in his room, so he opens the curtains and blind with a spell. The same pigeon that brought Goldstein's message to his office, yesterday, is hovering outside the sash window. He murmurs another spell and the window opens, gauzy lace curtains catching in the breeze. The disgruntled black pigeon flies in, gracefully evading the tangle of the curtains, and lands on his chest, claws digging through the fabric of last night's shirt. Graves is certain he can see an evil twinkle in its eye as it looks at him side-on. He waves his hand but the pigeon stays put, just fluttering its wings for a moment.

The sounds of traffic float up from the street below, cars honking and trucks rumbling. Graves groans and fumbles for the message attached to the pigeon, trying to read through bleary eyes. The pigeon has finally moved on to preening itself on the headboard. Graves sits up, stomach lurching. The words swim on the page. Graves summons his potion and drinks it with a grimace. It's thick, gritty, tastes like dirt, yet somehow sweet. He still hasn't found a way to make it pleasant, and he figures maybe that's a sign to stop drinking so much. But it gets the job done. He sets the vial down and turns back to the message, words no longer jumping around the parchment. Tina's neat script reads:

_'Wilmer Jones escaped custody. About to leave with search team. Will check in later, if I can.  
-Tina.'_

Graves frowns. He summons his quill and parchment, scrawls a reply, and tells the pigeon to take it to Tina. The bird coos haughtily and flaps away. Graves flops back against his pillow. Jones didn't look like the kind of wizard who could break through MACUSA's security. Did he have someone helping him, someone on the inside? Graves wonders what he's got himself into, and checks the time. It's nearly 1pm. He drags himself out of bed, showers and dresses in a navy suit, threading his tooled leather belt through the loops of his pants, and straightens his tie. His signet ring sits on the sink, next to his toothbrush, and he slips it onto his right ring finger, then fixes his hair. That hangover potion works wonders, he thinks, eyeing his reflection. No one would ever guess that half an hour ago he was a red-eyed mess, just blinking awake.

He makes his way to the kitchen, where he eats a baloney sandwich, leaning against the counter, hip cocked, and ankles crossed. One hand rests on the counter, fingers drumming, the other holding the sandwich precariously as he chews thoughtfully.

MACUSA can handle the manhunt on their own, and if he showed up offering to help it would only put Tina in an awkward position. He can wait for Tina to fill him in, see if she can engineer an interview with Jones once they've brought him back into custody. He levitates a cup down from the cabinet above, pours some steaming black coffee into it and takes a sip. It's just this side of too hot, bitter and strong. He crosses his arms over his chest. He considers finding Credence, asking straight out if, and how, he's connected to Mary Lou but his gut tells him to wait on that one. Instead, he settles on heading to the Second Salem church, and talking to Mary Lou's daughters. It's a long shot but there might be something there the investigating aurors missed.

__

It's nearly two by the time Graves leaves his apartment, trench coat tied over his navy suit. It's crisp, and cold outside; fat grey clouds hang in the sky but no rain falls. Graves casts an Impervius charm on his coat and hat, anyway, just in case, and apparates a few blocks from the church, hoping a walk in the cool air will clear what his hangover potion couldn't.

As he's walking, hands tucked into his pockets, Graves spies Credence from across the road, coming out of a station, even more gorgeous in the clear, grey light. Graves laughs, quietly. Seems something wanted him to see Credence, today, after all, gut instincts be damned. Credence walks with his shoulders hunched – wearing a rich navy overcoat, grey suit peeking out – like he had in the club the night before. He seems used to trying to make himself as small as possible, invisible. Graves wonders what's happened to make him like that. The thought that it might be Grindelwald curdles in his stomach.

He crosses the rain-slicked road to tail Credence. He easily dodges brisk walking No-Majes, their heads down, shoulders squared. The passersby, Graves, and Credence move faster than the cars wedged together on the road, exhaust fogging in the cool air, passengers and drivers alike fidgeting impatiently. Graves's eyes never leave Credence, as he weaves between the crowd, the curve of his shoulders, the strip of pale neck above his scarf. 

A man approaches Credence, grabs the younger man by the arm, fingers squeezing tight. Graves has to stop himself from shooting forward, pulling him off of Credence, or throwing a hex, heedless of the No-Majes around. His hand flexes in his pocket and he steps aside so he can watch their exchange. The man looks angry and familiar, dressed expensively, a smug air about him. A No-Maj politician, Graves pulls from the recesses of his mind. 

Credence wrenches his arm out of the other man's grip, hugs both arms around his middle. His eyes are fixed on his shoes. Graves hangs back and casts an eavesdropping charm so he can hear what they say. He only catches the man mentioning Grindelwald, wanting to talk to him, before he calls Credence a freak. Credence winces and then the man stalks off, again, purposefully knocking into Credence's shoulder, making him stumble.

Credence rights himself and sighs, hunched in even further as he keeps walking. Graves stays a few feet behind him. The crowd and traffic thin as they walk on, buildings becoming shabbier, rundown. When Graves suspects they're headed for the same destination, he picks up his pace and falls into step with Credence. 'Hi, angel.'

Credence stops abruptly, stiffens as though steeling himself for another unpleasant encounter, but his posture softens when he turns and sees Graves beside him. 

'Mr Graves,' says Credence, with the hint of a smile. 'Where are you going?'

'Following up some leads on my case.' They start walking again, pace leisurely. 'At the Second Salem church.'

Credence stumbles and Graves catches him by the elbow. 'Sorry.' His breath catches, wet, in his throat. 'The Second Salem Church?'

'Yeah, you know it?'

'Yes, I um, I'm going there too.'

'Huh, what a coincidence.' Graves sidesteps an elderly woman, grey head bobbing as she barrels along the sidewalk, his arm brushing against Credence's. 'Want to see how the other half lives?'

'What? Oh, no. I grew up there.' Credence stops at a corner and fixes Graves with an intense look. 'What case are you working on, Mr Graves?'

'A No-Maj woman was killed by magic.'

'Oh, I didn't...' Credence's gaze cuts away and he bites his lip. 'You're talking about Ma, I mean, Mary Lou?'

Graves nods, slowly, when Credence looks back, eyes wide and shining.

Credence only says, 'Oh,' again, brow furrowed. Graves wants to smooth his thumbs across it, but he keeps his hands firm in his pockets. Credence crosses the road and Graves follows. Now he knows Credence's connection to Mary Lou, but how did a squib end up being raised by a No-Maj? One who hates magic, no less.

Just as they get to the church – it's a rickety thing, rusted tin and peeling green paint – Graves says, 'Mary Lou was your mother?'

'Adoptive,' Credence says, in a tone that tells Graves he should drop it. He doesn't. 'How'd you end up with her?'

Before Credence can answer, a girl, about eight or nine, in brown shoes and a smocked tartan dress with a white collar, comes running out, braids swinging. 'Credence!' she yells and is swept up into Credence's arms. 

'Hi, Modesty,' he says as the girl loops her arms around Credence's neck. Modesty's eyes are pink, like she's been crying, but she beams at Credence. Her watery eyes land on Graves. 'Who's that?' she stage whispers.

Credence looks to Graves. 'Oh. This is my...friend, Mr Graves.' Credence shifts Modesty in his grip. His smile is clear and open as he looks at her. 'This is my sister, Modesty.'

Graves tips his hat. 'Pleased to meet you, Modesty.' The little girl stays silent, looks between the two men. Her gaze settles on Graves, considering. 'I like your face.'

Graves smirks. 'Thanks, kid.'

There is something in Credence's sparkling eyes, the quirk of his mouth, that says he might agree with her. 

Another girl, about nineteen, steps out of the church and joins them. She doesn't look happy to see Credence, like Modesty had been. Her hair is set in soft curls, but her face is hard. She's wearing a sloppy joe sweater, a plain dark skirt and shiny penny loafers. Graves guesses they're a new addition to her wardrobe after Mary Lou's death. 

'Chastity,' says Credence, the tiniest tremor in his voice.

'Credence.' She crosses her arms over her chest; her steely eyes slide to Graves.

Graves steps forward, hand outstretched. 'Percival Graves. Credence's friend.' Chastity only looks at his hand with a small frown. Graves withdraws it, shoves it back in his pocket.

'What are you doing here?' Chastity could be talking to either of them, but Credence flounders so Graves says, 'I just have some questions about...' he trails off, looks at Modesty, who is playing with the fringed hem of Credence's scarf. 'Your mother. About her death.'

This cuts through the ice and the slightest hint of tears show in Chastity's eyes. 'What about it?'

A fat raindrop lands on the ground by Graves's feet, thunder rumbles, distantly. 'Why don't we go inside?'

__

The church is as grim inside, as out. It's sparsely decorated, bleak – no Catholic cathedral stained glass windows to throw cascades of colour against the stark interior, here – and cold. There is a staircase to the side, leading to a mezzanine that must be where the bedrooms are, and beneath it a conspicuously shut door that might be the kitchen, if Modesty's nervous glance toward it means anything. Graves wonders if it's shut so the girl doesn't have to think about finding her mother dead in there. But it's the church they stay in, the musty scent of salt-damp around them, Chastity offering no pretence of hospitality.

Credence shifts awkwardly in the quiet, asks, 'Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Graves? Or anything else?' soft voice cutting through the silence.

Chastity's gaze whips to him. 'This isn't your home, anymore.'

Credence looks stricken. He slips off his gloves, blotches of pink sitting high on his cheekbones, lips tight. Modesty, still tucked against Credence, says, 'Don't be mean, Chastity.'

An uncomfortable silence stretches out. Graves looks between the three siblings, tries to puzzle out their dynamic. It's clear that Modesty adores Credence and Chastity seems resentful of him. Maybe because he got out and she couldn't. Graves clears his throat. 'I'm fine, thanks.' He catches himself before he calls Credence 'angel', figures it wouldn't help things between him and his sister.

Rain patters on the tin roof, one, two, three drops, before hammering down. Credence nods, not looking at Chastity, and sombrely folds himself onto a pew. Modesty climbs into his lap. 

'What do you want to know about our mother?' Chastity doesn't sit, stands near the pulpit, back straight, so Graves stays standing, leaves his hat on.

'Anything strange you might have seen before she died. Anyone hanging around, something like that.' If they had seen Wilmer Jones, they won't remember. But if he didn't do it, then the aurors would have been looking for the wrong memories when the girls were obliviated.

'We've already talked to the police,' says Chastity.

'I'm not the police. I'm a private detective.' Modesty looks up at that, eyes twinkling. Graves wonders if Credence used to sneak out with her, see those detective movies he likes, the two of them sharing popcorn in the silvery light of the cinema. Imagining a life away from Mary Lou's desolate church. 'Tying up some loose ends, for a friend.'

'Well, neither of us saw or heard anything,' Chastity says, 'Ma died of natural causes. That's what they said. She hadn't been well.' She crosses to where Modesty sits on Credence's lap, and takes the younger girl's hand, tugging until Modesty stands. 'I've got errands to run.'

Chastity is eager to get out, away from the questions, but Graves isn't sure if she's scared, hiding something, or just wants to get on with her life. Graves decides not to push it. 'Mind if I look at your ma's room?' He nods to Credence. 'I'm sure Credence can see me out.'

'I don't know...'

'I'm not going to take anything, if you're worried,' says Credence with an edge to his voice that impresses Graves.

Chastity's gaze remains level, cool, but a touch of pink colours her cheeks. 'That will be fine,' she says, reluctantly. 'Come on, Modesty.' She tugs the girl's hand again. 

Modesty looks between Chastity and Credence, seems like she might protest but only nods, lips pursed. She hugs her free arm around Credence, who leans down and kisses the top of her head. Chastity scowls at them both.

'I'll come see you again, soon,' says Credence.

It's stopped raining, the quiet ringing in Graves's ears. 'OK,' says Modesty, in a small, wet voice. 

Chastity leaves silently, with Modesty trailing behind, one last look at Credence over her shoulder before they disappear into the grey afternoon. The tension in the air leaves with them.

'You really didn't know Mary Lou was killed by magic?' Graves asks now that Credence's No-Maj sisters can't hear. He takes his hat off, sets it on a pew, runs a hand through his hair.

'No. I was just told she died.' Credence moves to the stairs and Graves follows. 

'You didn't think to ask how?' There is a creak that might be the stairs or Graves's knees. Probably both.

Credence shrugs, one hand trailing lightly along the bannister, sending little eddies of dust into the air.

Graves studies the tense set of his shoulders, down his arm to the long fingers catching on the splitting wood, imagines the curve of his spine, his thighs beneath his coat. He sucks in a breath, shifts his gaze to the ceiling. 'You don't seem too cut up about it.'

That fire Graves remembers from last night sparks in Credence's eyes when he stops on the landing, close enough so that he can feel the younger man's expelled breaths. 'I'm not going to pretend I'm sad she's dead,' Credence says, and Graves gets an inkling that this is where Credence learned to make himself small, that Mary Lou taught him. Not for the first time, Graves feels a little glad that Mary Lou Barebone is dead.

Graves only stares at Credence, those flames threatening to set him alight, and, then, Credence comes over all nervous, shy again. 'But what-what did happen to her?'

So, Graves tells him about Wilmer Jones, what little there is to tell from his confession, Credence leaning back against the railing. 'Wilmer Jones...that sounds familiar.'

Graves digs into his pocket where he'd stowed the photo of Jones, just in case. He hands it to Credence. 'This is him.'

Credence blinks. 'I think I've seen him at the Blue Mandrake.' The Blue Mandrake attracts clientele from all strata of the wizarding world but Jones seems practically destitute. Graves doubts he'd even be able to afford a whiff of their champagne. But there are rumours, about a secret back room, gambling, witches and wizards getting deep into the kind of debt you can't always pay back with dragots. The thought tugs at Graves but it floats away as Credence hands the photo back. 'If Mr Jones confessed, why are you investigating?'

'A friend of mine doesn't think it's the whole story. I agree with her,' Graves answers, frowning at the photo. He flicks it and stows it back in his pocket. He can think about Jones, later. Hopefully talk to him.

'Oh.' Credence pushes off of the banister, standing close, again. His eyes linger on Graves a moment too long before he turns and walks to the end of the hall.

When they get to Mary Lou's room, Credence waits in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, foot tapping nervously. Graves doesn't ask him to come in.

The room is as spartan and grey as the rest of the church. There is a bed in the middle, a lopsided table beside it with a worn bible on top. A small closet sits against one wall and a bureau against another. Lace curtains hang at the window, letting weak light in, illuminating the meagre possessions. Credence's rattling, nervous breaths fill the still room.

Graves goes through Mary Lou's closet first. There's one dark grey dress, two blouses with matching sensible skirts, two pairs of shoes at the bottom, and an old-fashioned hat at the top. The dress Mary Lou wore in the crime scene photo, the one she was murdered in, is unsurprisingly absent. Maybe she was buried in it. Graves doesn't ask if Credence went to the funeral. 'How did you end up with Mary Lou?' 

There is only silence from Credence so Graves closes the closet door, peers around it. Credence is staring intently at his shoes. 'I don't remember. I was only three,' Credence finally answers.

A moment passes, then another. 'And what about Grindelwald?'

Credence tilts his head back, long neck concealed by his scarf. 'He took me in when I was eighteen. Told me I belonged in the magical world. But that I'd never be able to, you know...'

'Do magic?'

Credence nods, eyes closed.

Graves still has more questions than answers, like how long had Credence known Grindelwald before he left to live with him? How did Mary Lou figure in their relationship? What, if anything, did she really know about magic? But instead, he says, 'Your singing is plenty magic, angel,' startling a pleased laugh from Credence. It's like the tinkling of a vibraphone and Graves wonders what he wouldn't do to hear it, again.

It doesn't take long to go through Mary Lou's belongings, but Graves hasn't found anything. He drums his fingers against the bureau and is about to shut the top drawer, when he sees a flash of white, wedged at the back. He pulls it out. It's a photo of the whole family, solemn faces all, before Credence left to live with Grindelwald. Credence's clothes are shabby, too small, and his haircut is uneven, but those cheekbones, those lips. Unmistakable, Graves thinks. He pockets the photo and shuts the drawer.

'What was that?' asks Credence, craning his neck, one foot over the threshold.

Graves crosses to the door and shows Credence the photo. Credence gives it a quick glance before he looks away.

'Why do you want that?'

'You look cute.' Graves winks.

'I look ridiculous.' Credence rolls his eyes but the edges of his lips quirk. The urge to kiss him wells up in Graves. Somewhere a clock chimes and Credence pushes up his sleeve, looks at his watch. His shoulders slump. 'I should go.'

Graves steps closer, can feel the warmth rolling off of Credence. 'Need me to walk you home, angel?'

Credence shifts, edging closer. His eyes flick down to Graves's mouth and back up to catch his gaze. 'I think I can manage it on my own,' he says, voice pitched lower.

'Yeah, guess your boyfriend wouldn't like it, either.'

Credence's cheeks turn pink and he pulls back. 'Gellert isn't my boyfriend. It's not...like that.'

'For him, or for you?' says Graves. Credence huffs in frustration, like he's had to go through this all before. 'You don't believe me?'

Graves shrugs. 'I know men like Grindelwald.' Something dark roils in his stomach and he sucks in a deep breath. He leans against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. 

'What does that mean?'

Graves gives Credence a long look from the tips of his shiny shoes, up to his lovely face. That face that holds the kind of promises Graves has spent his life running from. 'It doesn't mean anything, angel.'

Credence opens his mouth, frowning, then shakes his head. 'Sure'. Credence turns to leave.

Graves catches him by one delicate wrist, fingers skimming his pulse point. It's warm, thrumming wildly beneath his fingertips. He summons a card. 'Here, take this.'

Their fingers brush as Credence takes it from him. 'What is it?' He turns it over.

'My card. In case you need anything.' Their eyes meet again. 'And I mean anything.'

Credence's frown drops away, and he says, softly, 'Thank-you.'

'Any time, angel.' Credence smiles and Graves sees, now, there's something broken behind that honeyed smile. And Graves? Well, he's never been able to resist the broken ones.

__

Tina is waiting for Graves when he gets to his office. The lights are out, only a soft glow from the tip of Tina's wand in the dark hallway. She's twirling it absently in her hand, leaning against his office door. She looks worn out, hair a mess, clothing rumpled.

'Want a drink?' Graves says and Tina nods, surprising him. She's not usually a drinker. He lets them into the office and pours two tumblers of whiskey, levitating one to Tina. She gulps it down. 

Graves sets the other tumbler on the desk and shrugs off his coat and jacket, rolls up his sleeves. 'You find Jones?'

'Yes.' Tina sits heavily on the Chesterfield, the worn leather creaking. Graves summons his desk chair and whiskey, sits in front of her. He rests his elbows on his knees. Tina fiddles with the empty tumbler, asks for another drink. Graves pours it and Tina says, 'He's dead.'

'Yeah?' 

Tina nods. 'He was found at the scene of another No-Maj murder. Senator Shaw.'

Cold spreads through Graves's chest. 'What did this senator look like?'

Tina frowns. 'Late 30s, brown hair, fairly tall.'

It fits the description of the man Graves saw with Credence earlier. Something clangs in his head and he barely registers Tina standing, saying she has to get back to work. She pauses at the door and turns back, biting her lip. 'Maybe I was wrong about Jones.'

Graves shakes his head. 'No.' He's certain now Tina's instincts, his instincts are right. 'And I think he might have had help getting out.'

Tina's eyes widen. 'Inside MACUSA you mean?'

'Yeah.'

Tina sighs. 'I have to go.' She looks like she wants to say something else, but only shakes her head. 'I'll try to talk to you soon.' Once Tina is outside his office wards, she apparates with a resounding crack and Graves is alone.

Graves sits with his chin in one hand, Firewhiskey dangling from the other, mostly untouched. Two dead No-Majes, now, and both of them with a connection to Credence. Graves doesn't like it. He tosses back his drink and decides it's time to ask Credence some more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought, if you want, and you can, as always [find me on tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/). My inbox/messages are always open (for whatever). :)
> 
> I paraphrased the line about the 'broken ones' from the comic [_The Fade Out_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fade_Out). I don't often like doing that but it just struck me as so fitting, here. (Original line: _'But there's something hiding behind her smile. Something broken. And Charlie's always been drawn to the broken ones.'_ ).
> 
> I don't think there is such a thing as an eavesdropping charm (all that came up were the extendable ears the Weasley twins made) but I figured it would be helpful to a Private Auror, so maybe Graves or another invented their own. ;)
> 
> Oh, and [I made an aesthetic edit thingamie over on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/160384567005/avada-kedavra-my-love-a-gradence-noir-au-mary), so if you want an idea of the kind of images floating around my head while I'm writing, take a look :)


	4. the third man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight angst ahead!
> 
> (chapter title taken from the 1949 film of the same name)

A boozy sax wails, high and keening, cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, hitting Graves in the centre of his chest. A shiver runs down his spine as he sits at the bar of the Blue Mandrake, nursing a club soda. He can say this for Grindelwald: he has good taste in music. And, Graves thinks as Credence approaches – all slinky hips and looks to make you swoon – in men. 

Credence's eyes brighten as they light on Graves, and he slips onto the stool next to his. Their thighs touch, warm, even through their trousers. 'Mr Graves, I didn't think I'd see you again so soon.' Credence props his elbow on the bar, curls a hand under his chin. 'What are you doing here?'

'Came to hear my favourite songbird.' 

Credence ducks his head, cheeks dimpling. So damn _pleased_ Graves can just about feel it. A tray of empty coupes floats down to the bar. The glasses are filled again, champagne fizzing, and whisked away to the table where thirsty patrons await its return.

Graves raps his knuckles on Credence's knee. 'Buy you a drink?'

There is a twinkle in his eye when Credence leans forward, tone confidential. 'I get my drinks on the house.'

'Hm.' Graves taps a finger on his chin in mock thought. 'In that case, buy me a drink?' 

Credence laughs, fizzy like the champagne the glitzy witches and wizards drink, and every bit as intoxicating. 'What are you having?'

The club soda sits before Graves, evidence of his resolve to lay off the booze, tonight, but Credence is looking at him with those sexy-as-hell eyes, so Graves says, 'Firewhiskey.'

Credence signals to Jacob, who comes over and gives Graves a stern look. 'A cherry soda for me and a Firewhiskey for Mr Graves, please.'

'Coming right up,' says Jacob in his usual jovial tone but Graves can sense something disapproving beneath it.

Moments later two glasses land before them, and Graves downs half of his, relishing the burn, while Credence only sips. He watches the line of Credence's throat work as he swallows, his long fingers curled around the glass, as he sets it down. Swishes the straw around in it, ice clinking gently. The dark smudge of his eyelashes, the pink high along his cheeks, the soft spot behind his ear.

Get it together, Graves. Fight your disposition for one fucking second. 'Actually, I wanted to ask you something.'

'OK.'

'How did you know senator Shaw?' Credence looks startled by the abrupt question. Graves doesn't blame him; he'd planned on being more subtle, taking his time to get around to Shaw, but his thoughts are snapping, tripping his tongue. 'I saw you with him, before the church.'

Credence shrugs, looks uncomfortable. 'I've met him through Gellert,' says Credence. Graves had figured that much, at least, but still wonders how a No-Maj senator could have known Grindelwald. Credence swallows. 'Why?'

'He's dead.'

Credence's eyes widen and his fingers curl around his tie. 'Oh.'

Graves drums his fingers on the bar. 'You know, that makes two dead No-Majes with a connection to you, killed by magic, in the last two weeks.'

All the colour, that pretty flush, drains from Credence's face. 'Are you asking me if I had something to do with their deaths?' He turns the glass in his hands and looks at Graves. 'You know I can't...'

Yes, Graves thinks. Maybe. He doesn't know. He says, 'No, angel, that would sound like 'did you have something to do with their deaths?'' 

Credence frowns, blushing, not looking at Graves, and says, 'What about that man, Wilmer Jones?'

'He's dead, too, but I don't think he killed your Ma or the senator.' Graves wonders how much to let spill, how far to trust Credence. 'At least not on his own.'

Credence shakes his head. 'I don't understand what you're saying.'

'All I'm saying is, it's strange.' Graves sighs and runs a hand over his face. It's strange and it's suspicious, but maybe Graves doesn't care, right now. Not with the Firewhiskey burning in his stomach and Credence's shoulders hunched, his mouth turned down. Graves misses that smile. He leans a little closer, softens his voice and, he hopes, his eyes when Credence looks up at him. He curls his fingers around Credence's elbow. 'And just...stay safe.' 

Credence blinks. He nods, fervently, and takes a long pull of his drink through the straw, ice clinking again as his hands shake. 'You don't have to worry about me.'

No chance of that, thinks Graves, as he finishes his Firewhiskey. He signals to Jacob for another. 

'So, what song are you going to sing for me, tonight?' asks Graves, the tension since he mentioned Shaw unbearable, near suffocating. Credence's lips quirk but his eyes remain troubled. 'Anything you like, Mr Graves,' he says, voice only an echo of the delight from earlier. 

Graves doesn't answer that, just lets himself look at Credence. And Credence looks back, helplessly, corners of his lips turned up in a small, sad smile. 

A shadow falls over them and Graves looks up to see Gellert Grindelwald standing by Credence, sliding one arm around the boy's shoulder, expression as icy as his hair. 'Who's your friend, Liebling?' he asks Credence, but gaze firm on Graves.

'Oh, Gellert, hello.' Credence swallows, thickly, eyes snapping away from Graves. 'This is Percival Graves. He's a private auror.'

'Ah, Mr Graves, I know you by reputation of course,' says Grindelwald, slightest hint of an accent, holding out a stiff hand. Graves takes it, squeezes as hard as is socially acceptable. Grindelwald's face remains impassive.

'And I know you by yours, Mr Grindelwald.'

Grindelwald raises a brow. 'That is not surprising.' Credence frowns up at Grindelwald, but Grindelwald's gaze never wavers from where it bores through Graves. 

The band plays a slow song, couples on the floor holding each other close as they sway in time, dim lights glinting off of sparkling jewellery, some paste, some real. The reedy clarinet and soft piano jars on Graves's ears with the atmosphere hanging over the three men, the thick silence that settles around them uneasily. Graves wonders who'll break it first.

A witch in a small black satin number, levitating a tray of cigarettes, jostles Grindelwald as she passes – 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr Grindelwald', she says, deftly catching a stray pack – but he doesn't say anything. Credence gives the witch a small smile, which she returns before she's back to work. Graves drums his fingers on the bar again, face twisted into a wry smile.

'Are you here for business or pleasure, Mr Graves?' Grindelwald finally asks.

Graves's eyes flicker to Credence when Grindelwald says 'pleasure', Credence meeting them briefly before he looks away again, almost guilty. Graves says, 'Business.'

Grindelwald angles himself in front of Credence, now. 'In that case, I have a matter I would like to discuss with you. Perhaps you will come see me in my office.' He gestures to the bar. 'When you've finished your drink, of course.' He turns to Credence, cups the back of his neck, thumb pressing over his pulse. Credence sucks in a breath, like he's trying not to flinch. It's only a split second, but Graves sees it. Grindelwald frowns, like he's noticed, too. 'Isn't it time for you to sing?' 

Credence looks over his shoulder at the stage. 'Yes, Gellert,' he says and Grindelwald leaves, with one last steely glance at Graves.

'Not your boyfriend, huh?' says Graves, when Grindelwald is out of sight, echoing their conversation at the church. The look on Credence's face twists in his stomach, makes him regret that he always has a sharp reply ready to spill from his tongue, heedless of who it might sting.

Credence bites his lip. 'You don't understand,' he says and then he's standing, pushing away from the bar. He walks a few paces, then turns back. There is something like shattered glass in his voice when he says, 'It was nice to see you, Mr Graves,' and Graves just nods, can't say anything past the feeling that something's been knocked loose in his chest.

__

Grindelwald's office is not as flashy as Graves had expected. It's spacious, expensively furnished, but sleek, minimalist. There is a wall of windows on one side, giving an impressive view of Manhattan. A low grey sofa sits beneath them. The walls are mostly bare but above Grindelwald's desk is a large, still portrait of Credence. He's sitting side on, wearing an elegant tuxedo, looking straight out from the canvas with his dark, expressive eyes. It's a beautiful likeness, but eerie.

'Won't you take a seat?' asks Grindelwald from the other side of his desk, a large slab of marble set on steel legs, cold and imposing. Graves sits, notices the guest chair is slightly lower than Grindelwald's, so he has to tilt his head up to make eye contact. It's less comfortable than Grindelwald's looks, too. How predictable.

Graves picks up a paper weight – a mandrake flower, charmed blue, set into glass – turns it over in his hands, testing the heft. He sets it down again and leans back in the chair. 'What did you want to discuss with me?'

'Call it a matter of curiosity.' Grindelwald steeples his fingers, elbows on the arm rest of his wingback chair, leather squeaking against the fabric of his suit.

It's otherwise quiet in the office, the sounds of the club completely blocked out, by the walls, or by a charm, Graves can't tell. 

'Yeah?' Graves resists the urge to shift in the chair, something digging into his back. 'You know, I'm feeling a little curious, myself.'

'About?'

'Wilmer Jones.'

'I'm afraid I don't know that name.'

'He killed a couple of No-Majes,' Graves says in the same tone you might say he worked at a bank or collected stamps as a hobby. 'I had a hunch he might have come here looking to gamble.'

Grindelwald huffs. 'Gamble? Mr Graves, I run a nightclub not a casino.'

Graves snaps his fingers. 'Of course. How forgetful of me.' He takes out the photo of Wilmer Jones, slides it across the desk. 'So you've never seen him here?'

'No.' Grindelwald barely spares the photo a glance.

'Funny. Credence has,' Graves says, tucking the photo away, again.

Grindelwald doesn't miss a beat as he says, 'He sees more of the customers than I do, here in my office.' Graves nods but he doesn't believe him. There is a long pause before Grindelwald adds, 'You seem to have taken quite an interest in Credence.'

Graves smirks. 'He's an interesting man.' 

'Indeed.' Grindelwald's nostrils flare, slightly, the only thing he's given away since Graves stepped into his office. 'Credence is...precious to me, Mr Graves. He's impressionable, also. I'd hate to see him spending time with the wrong company.'

'Wrong company' is one of the more polite things he's been called, Graves thinks, but it's edged with the same meaning as the less polite words he's had hurled at him. 'Right. Of course. That would be a shame.' Looking at Grindelwald, Graves swallows the urge to say it seems like it's too late for that.

'I'm glad we understand each other.' A quill floats into Grindelwald's hand and a piece of parchment settles onto the desk before him. 'I do hope you have a pleasant evening at the Blue Mandrake, Mr Graves.'

Graves stands up. He knows a kiss-off when he hears one, but he stops at the door and turns back. 'Ever meet Henry Shaw, a No-Maj senator?

Grindelwald looks up, one brow arched. 'Of course not. My contact with No-Majes is limited, as per Rappaport's Law. You are forgetful tonight.'

'Guess I am.' Graves doesn't say he's not the only one – Grindelwald never did tell him what he asked Graves to his office for – and leaves without another word. Graves knows all that guff about curiosity and having a matter to discuss with him was just Grindelwald's excuse to get him away from Credence, though, make sure Graves knows he wants him to stay away. 

He had guessed Grindelwald was the jealous type, but now that they've talked, Graves feels like it's more than just a matter of being a possessive lover. There was something under Grindelwald's words. Nothing Graves could pinpoint, exactly, but enough to make him suspicious. A man like Grindelwald is bound to have a lot of secrets but Graves is sure, now, at least one of them is about Credence. And he wants to know what it is.

As he passes through the main dining room, he stops a moment to watch Credence sing. The footlights illuminate the stage from below, soft and yellow, but a cool white spotlight shines on Credence. It casts a crisp shadow, moving in tandem with the young man, onto the shimmering curtains behind. He's all loose, again, shirt unbuttoned, soft curls falling around his face, completely lost in the song. A vision, Graves would think, if he were the sentimental type. But he's not and all he can liken it to is a punch in the stomach, the kind that leaves you gasping for air. Credence doesn't look his way and Graves leaves, collecting his coat and hat on the way out, without looking back.

__

MACUSA is all but empty at this time of night, everyone tucked safely in their beds or maybe out on the town, so Graves is left to sneak into the files department, alone. It houses not only auror's case files, but copies of every kind of paperwork a witch or wizard may fill out in their lifetime. A goldmine for the private auror.

He is crouching by the department door, trying to crack the locking charm that's been strengthened since he last broke in, when footsteps approach, echoing in the empty hallway. A pair of platform heels, dusty pink with a bow on top, come into view. He follows them up to a pair of shapely calves, shining in nylon, past the flowy hem of a pink skirt, all the way up to the bright face of Queenie Goldstein. Her blonde hair is styled into soft curls that fall around her shoulders and large, rolled bangs that shadow her face from this angle.

'Mr Graves!' Graves sighs in frustration. It's impossible not to like Queenie, all sweetness and light, but he still doesn't like being caught out. It could have been someone else, though, someone who would kick him out or lock him up without a second thought.

'Hi, Queenie.' He stands, straightens his coat and takes off his hat.

'What are you up to?' She says, then smiles, cheeks dimpling, and taps her temple. 'As if I didn't know, already.'

Graves frowns – Queenie is one of the best Legilimenses he knows, but she usually can't read him, so easily – but then Queenie is saying, 'I can help you get in.'

'Thank-you,' says Graves, then adds, 'Why?' Queenie isn't as strict with following the rules as Tina but her eagerness to help him break in is surprising.

Queenie shrugs. 'You're helping Teenie, ain't you?'

Graves nods and steps aside to let Queenie open the door. It groans, sending motes of dust into the air, catching in the dim light. They step inside, passing the desk where Agatha would usually be sitting, filing her nails or scowling at Graves, during office hours.

'How are you going to look through everything?' Queenie asks, gazing up at the rows of towering shelves, each filled to bursting with precariously stacked boxes. If it weren't for magic, they'd all come toppling down. 'I only know the charm to get in.'

'I know the searching charm.' He'd modified it from the one MACUSA uses to go through the files, the one only employees are meant to know. A wizard he'd dated once worked here and taught it to him. They stopped seeing each other soon after that.

'That's neat,' says Queenie, sitting on a rickety mahogany table, feet kicking.

'Why are you here so late?' Graves leans against one of the shelves, arms crossed, while he waits for the charm to search for any mentions of Wilmer Jones or Credence Barebone.

'Teenie left something at work that she said she needed but I wouldn't let her come back. She's been working too hard, lately.' She shakes her head, curls swishing around her shoulders.

'Is anyone in there?' A muffled voice calls through the door and Queenie hops off the table, pokes her head out into the hall. 'It's Mr Abernathy,' she whispers to Graves. 'I'll take care of him. You find what you're after.'

Graves nods and turns back to see the charm has finished its search, some papers now sitting on the table. He flips through them. Nothing has been found with Credence's name, which isn't too strange. He's a squib, has only been living in the magical world for three years, and he probably had a different name at birth. Graves wonders what it was. But very little has come up for Jones – his wand licence, death certificate but not birth – and that sets alarm bells ringing in Graves's head. Someone must have been removing files. It increases his suspicion that Jones had inside help. He keeps coming up against walls; it's like Jones barely existed. But it's Credence he wants to know more about. Credence he's thinking about when Queenie slips back into the room.

'Abernathy's got real good at occlumency lately,' Queenie says, with a small frown. Her eyes slide to Graves. 'But your guard's down tonight. He sounds like a real cutie.' 

'Abernathy?'

'No, the fella you're thinking about.' Queenie smiles and Graves feels the edges of his own lips quirk before he schools his face back into something more neutral. Queenie's smiles always have been infectious. 'Credence, isn't it?'

Graves only grunts and flips through the files he's found on Jones, distracted. The Firewhiskey is probably affecting his occlumency. He doesn't want to consider that it might be Credence weakening his defences. He really has to pull himself together.

'Why don't you look through the Ilvermorny records?' Queenie says, peering over his shoulder. Her breath puffs warm over his neck and the scent of baked goods and honey fills his nose. 

'For Jones? He was there thirty years ago. How will that help?'

'No, for your fella.' Queenie straightens up and sits on the table, again, drumming her long raspberry nails on the polished surface. 

Graves doesn't correct her about Credence not being his 'fella'. 'He's a squib.'

Queenie shrugs one shoulder. 'Yeah, but you don't believe that. Not entirely.' 

Graves gives her a hard look but she just keeps on smiling back.

'I can't help it if your thoughts are coming through loud and clear tonight, Mr Graves. You're usually better at keeping them locked up.' She makes a motion like turning a key, then points in the general direction of his head.

Graves huffs. 'He didn't go to Ilvermorny, anyway. I know that much.'

Queenie tilts her head. 'Well, if he ain't a squib, but didn't go, he'd still have got a letter, right?'

Graves rubs his face. Why hadn't he thought of that? 'Yeah, yeah, I guess you're right.'

The Ilvermorny records are kept in another room, behind the main one, so the searching charm wouldn't have gone through those files. Queenie leads him there, bypassing the locking charm, again, with an ease that makes Graves think, not for the first time, she's got a lot more power than she lets on. This room is smaller, stuffy, the cloying scent of dust hanging heavy in the air.

'I should probably get home,' Queenie says, standing in the doorway. 'Teenie's been on edge, lately, and I don't want her to worry if I take too long.'

'Thanks, Queenie,' says Graves, with a small, tired smile. He'd rather be left alone, anyway, especially with his thoughts broadcasting loud and clear. 'Do you mind asking Tina to meet me at my office, tomorrow?'

'Sure thing, Mr Graves,' says Queenie, and then she's off, skirt flouncing, and Graves sighs. He steps further into the room, running a hand through his hair, and mutters the incantation for the searching charm. 

A piece of parchment floats down to his waiting hands. It's the list of Ilvermorny letters sent in 1935, and Graves's stomach roils when he scans the list and Credence's name is there in stark black ink. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and sits heavily. This doesn't mean Credence has been lying. Ilvermorny letters _have_ been sent to squibs before. The system glitches, finds squibs who have just a little more magic than others, but not enough to be a witch or wizard. Their families are relieved when they get the letter and crushed again when their kids are sent home, unable to perform even the simplest magical tasks. It's rare but it had happened when Graves was in his third year. A brunette with bouncy curls, sent home red faced and in tears. Graves has heard she runs a cafe, now, has an army of curly-haired children, is happy and settled.

So, it's not impossible that Credence was sent a letter by mistake, and, because he lived with Mary Lou until he was eighteen, she never would have sent him to Ilvermorny. And Ilvermorny wasn't so diligent about following up on kids who didn't respond to acceptance letters a decade ago. But did Credence know about the letter? Or did Mary Lou destroy it? Was it a glitch, and Credence is a squib, like he says, or is something else going on here? The further Graves goes, the more questions there are. 

They spin and twist in his head but they keep spiralling back to Credence. Some part of him had hoped it was his lust, his attraction to Credence that kept drawing him back to the man, and nothing more. But he can't ignore the facts, and, even if Credence isn't at the heart of every question, he's at least connected. Staring at the paper in his cold hands, Graves only hopes the connection doesn't go as far as he thinks it might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please feel free to [come talk to me on tumblr!](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) and thank-you so much to everyone who's left comments or kudos, so far. it means a lot to me. 
> 
> icymi i made [an aesthetic edit thing for this fic](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/160384567005/avada-kedavra-my-love-a-gradence-noir-au-mary), in case you want an idea of what kind of images are in my head while i write. :)
> 
> also, [almostannette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette) and i have started an epistolary fic, so [do go check that out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153484/chapters/24887772) if letters are your thing. :)
> 
> i re-read _the song is you_ by megan abbott, recently, and her writing really gets into my head and tends to flavour whatever i write after, so there's a little of her in here.


	5. out of the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some past and/or implied Graves/original male character in this chapter but I'm not sure if it's enough to warrant a tag. But I wanted to make sure people know. There's also a brief mention of past Graves/Theseus Scamander.
> 
> Thanks to [almostannette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette) for looking the chapter over for me <3
> 
> Chapter title taken from the 1947 film of the same name.

A paper mouse scurries over Graves's foot, obviously lost, as he's waiting by the Salem memorial at MACUSA Headquarters. He nudges it and it squeaks and scurries off, again, back the way it came. He leans against one of the brass statues, earning him a dirty look from a passing wizard, hands in his pockets, head tilted back. His face is turned to the sunlight streaming in. Tina had sent him a pigeon, earlier, while he was at his office pondering the mystery of Wilmer Jones and his apparent penchant for slaying No-Majes, to say she couldn't get away from work but Graves could meet her there. 

He had been glad to get out of the office, away from the list of Ilvermorny letters sent in 1935, away from those two damning words staring up at him from the worn parchment: Credence Barebone. He had spent all night and all morning thinking of the face that went with the name, trying to puzzle out if Credence has been lying to him, to everyone, or if he really is a squib. If there's a third answer to the question that is Credence, Graves can't guess what it is.

While he's watching a young couple trying to wrangle their small army of children, Seraphina Picquery, MACUSA president, and former schoolmate of Graves, walks by. Like Tina, she favours trousers, dressed in a sleek pinstriped suit with broad shoulders, nipped at the waist. But where Tina rarely styles her hair, Picquery sports elaborate coiffures, piles of blonde curls atop her head, decorated with freshly picked flowers. Today it's a garland of dahlias, almost as big as her head.

'Graves,' she says, eyes narrowed, voice wary, when she spots him. 

'Hi, Sera,' he says tipping back his hat, and straightening up.

'Madame President,' she corrects and gives him a long, disdainful look. 'What are you doing here? Spying on some poor soul for their suspicious spouse or hounding someone for their creditors, maybe?'

Graves shrugs. 'Waiting for a lunch date.'

'Hmm,' Picquery says. She looks him up and down in a way that would cow most men. Graves fights the urge to shift uncomfortably. 'Don't make any trouble', she adds and then sweeps away, the scent of flowers lingering after her.

Minutes later, Tina finds him; she's breathless, face pink, looking harassed. 'Sorry, it's chaos today.'

Graves leans back against the statue again. Tina looks like she might tut at him for being disrespectful but thinks better of it. 'No problem.'

'Why did you want to see me? Do you have a lead?' She sounds hopeful, desperate.

Graves tilts his head. 'I might.'

Tina's eyes widen incredulously. 'You might? I'm run off my feet and you _might_ have a lead?'

'I don't want to say anything until I'm certain,' he says, shifting against the brass at his back. He thinks of casting a muffling charm, so no passers by can hear them, but decides it will look more suspicious. He keeps his voice low, posture casual. 'But MACUSA must have some theories – on how Jones escaped and why he killed Shaw.'

Tina worries her bottom lip between her teeth. 'No one knows how he got out. He must have had help but Picquery insists there was no security breach. And the theory is that he just...lost it.'

'And killed the first No-Maj he met? Who just happened to be a senator?'

Tina shrugs, uneasily. 'And then regretted it and killed himself.'

Graves rubs a hand over his face. 'That's not much of a theory.'

Tina shakes her head. A witch in a maroon dress, a matching tilt hat adorned with an entire bird perched on her head, wiggles past, sending a saucy wink their way. Graves isn't sure if it's for him, or Tina, or both of them, but he winks back, anyway, and Tina rolls her eyes.

Graves pushes off of the statue, steps closer to Tina, voice pitched low. 'What about his wand? I thought it was broken.'

'He must have got a new one somehow, but there wasn't one at the scene.'

Graves hums. 'I'm surprised the Ghost isn't all over this.'

'The editor wanted to run a story. Picquery warned them to can it.'

'Of course she did.' Graves huffs, imagines E.L. Filhus, the editor of the New York Ghost, arguing the freedom of the press before finally cowering under Picquery's stare.

Tina shifts her weight and wrings her hands. 'Queenie said something about The Blue Mandrake. And a boy there.'

'Of _course_ she did,' mutters Graves. 'It's nothing. Just, you know...' He waves his hand in a vague gesture, not even sure what he means by it. 

Tina narrows her eyes. 'Haven't you always said not to get personally involved with suspects?'

Graves quirks a brow. 'I've never said that.'

'Oh, right, that must have been me. Telling you. Now.' Tina gives him a stern look but it soon melts to concern. Her shoulders sag. 'Be careful, OK?'

Graves winks. 'I always am.'

'Ha.' Tina sighs and looks past Graves's shoulder. He follows her gaze to see Queenie gesturing for Tina to hurry up. 'I have to go, I'm sorry. Mr Abernathy will notice if I'm gone too long.'

'That's OK,' says Graves. 'I need to see an old friend.'

__

Graves's breath mists in the air, the weak sunlight that peeks between towering, glistening skyscrapers barely touching his face, as he makes his way to the New York Ghost offices, on West Street. He had stopped by his own office after meeting with Tina to send a pigeon to Alvar Ramos, a wizard who knows everyone who knows everyone, asking him to look into Wilmer Jones and meet him, tonight, before heading out again. If Filhus had started looking into the Shaw murder before the story was canned, Graves wants to see the research, and he knows someone at the Ghost who might help him get ahold of it.

A young wizard at reception, juggling several howlers, glasses askew, tries to stop Graves as he slips past but he keeps walking, making for the rickety elevator that will take him down to the basement. As the doors close, he waves to the harried young man who looks at Graves helplessly before rushing back to his desk and the howlers that grow louder by the second. The elevator grinds to life, creaking and groaning the whole way down, before it shudders to a stop and Graves spills out into a grim hallway. The flickering lights overhead make Graves wonder if they use the same faulty charms as Graves's own office building down here. It's musty, damp and bitterly cold.

'Newt Scamander,' Graves says, startling the other man, as he steps into the dim, cramped office at the end of the hall. 'Still got you in the basement, I see?'

Newt nods, looking at him briefly, before his eyes dart away. A quill is stuck behind one ear, fingers stained with ink, ginger hair mussed as usual. What appears to be a Bowtruckle peeks out of the pocket of his rumpled shirt, peering at Graves, before disappearing again. 'Yes.'

Newt isn't a typical reporter – too kind, for one thing – but Graves knows this is just a stepping stone until he can write his book about magical beasts and creatures. Graves had first met Newt in England, during the No-Maj war, through his older brother, Theseus. He and Theseus dated, for a time, but broke it off long before Graves returned to the States. They keep in touch and Theseus had asked Graves to keep an eye on Newt when he moved to New York. Some days, Graves still can't believe the two Scamanders are related.

Graves leans against a filing cabinet, arms crossed. 'Don't want to know what I'm doing here?'

'You'll tell me,' Newt replies, matter-of-fact.

A stack of books and old papers topples over. Newt just blinks and waves his wand and they pile on top of each other, again, still wobbling precariously. Graves bites back a smile and asks, 'Have you got anything on the death of a No-Maj senator? Killed by magic?'

'I don't do major stories.' Newt sets aside the parchment he had been scribbling on and replaces it with a new piece. 'You know that.'

'Still, you haven't heard anything?'

'Why don't you ask your friend at MACUSA? Miss Goldstein.' Graves smirks at the way Newt says 'Miss Goldstein', the tiniest hint of longing in his voice.

'I have, and you didn't answer my question.'

Newt shrugs one shoulder, hands now clasped between his knees. 'Filhus wanted to run a story on it but he was warned not to.'

'Yeah, that's as much as Tina knows. Did Filhus have anyone do research before it was canned, anything?'

Newt, bottom lip tucked under his teeth, looks briefly at Graves, again, then away. This isn't unusual for Newt, but something in the way he does it, this time, makes Graves think there's more to it. He pushes off of the filing cabinet and leans on the desk. 'You do know something.'

Newt digs through his drawers and produces a file. 'I found this in his office.' Graves raises a brow as he takes it from Newt who explains, 'My niffler got out. I found him in Filhus's office with his paperweight and fountain pen. When I saw the file on Filhus's desk I...got curious. People should know about this but I can't do anything.' 

'Thank Merlin for your curiosity, Scamander,' Graves says flicking through the file. 'And your niffler.' He closes it and taps it against one hand. 'Can I keep this?'

Newt nods. 'Was that all?'

'Yep. I owe you a drink.' Graves backs out of the room, pointing a finger at Newt.

Newt's lips quirk but he doesn't look up as he says, 'That's what you said last time,' and Graves just laughs, finally feeling like he might have caught a break.

__

The research on Shaw sits before Graves. The reporter assigned to the story didn't get far before the story was canned, but she got far enough to show that Shaw had connections with the magic world. Graves isn't sure how MACUSA let this slip by, but there are photos of Shaw going in and out of magical establishments he shouldn't even have been able to _see_ , let alone enter. Nothing ties him to any specific witch or wizard, but Credence had told Graves he'd met the No-Maj through Grindelwald. That's enough for Graves to figure that whatever Shaw was involved in, it had something to do with Credence, Grindelwald and The Blue Mandrake. He sighs. All roads lead to Credence.

__

D'Angelo's, one of the finest dining experiences in magical Manhattan since 1897, is bustling as usual when Graves arrives. Young witches and wizards in black vests and crisp white shirts take orders with quills and pads of parchment. There are no charmed dockets that whizz orders away to the kitchen here – D'Angelo's believes in the personal touch.

Graves scans the patrons as he waits for the new maître d', and easily spots who he's looking for: Alvar Ramos stands out in any crowd. He's sporting one of his trademark zoot suits, cream with dark brown stripes, a burgundy shirt and a matching patterned tie. A subtle affair, tonight, then. Subtle for a zoot suit, at least. He leans back in his chair, showing off a gold pocket watch, tan and cream spectators bouncing beneath the table. His dark brown hair is slicked back and a signet ring gleams on his left pinkie, as he signals a waiter.

Flickering candles in elaborate brass candelabra overhead bathe the room in warm light, shining on the dark wood panelling along the walls; the smells of steak and pizza and spaghetti mingle in the warm air. Any other night it would set Graves's mouth watering, but tonight it only makes his stomach turn, his earlier good mood slowly souring the more he thinks about Credence and Grindelwald and Shaw and Jones.

Before the maître d' – a tall, haughty wizard, who looks down his nose as he speaks to Graves – can seat him, the owner, Carmine D'Angelo, a stout Italian wizard, with an impressive head of hair for a ninety year old, shuffles over. Arms open wide he cries, 'Signor Graves, _come stai_?' He looks Graves over and shakes his head. ' _È troppo magra_.' He shrugs and sighs. 'Still, it is good to see you.'

Graves rubs his ear. 'It's good to see you, too, Carmine.' Graves had helped clear his son's name in a case involving the violation of Rappaport's Law back in '35 and Carmine had never forgotten.

One arm around Graves, Carmine points a finger at the maître d' and says, 'This man eats on the house, _capisci_?' before he excuses himself at a commotion coming from the kitchen. The maître d', slightly less haughty, now, has Graves seen to the table where Alvar waits.

'Percy, my friend, you are always late,' says Alvar, as he stands to take Graves's hand in both of his and kisses him on the cheek. The scent of Alvar's cologne, musky and heavy, takes him back a decade and he smiles; he never could stand that cologne but it was always comforting, somehow.

'You're always early,' Graves says as they part. Alvar laughs as he sits. Graves settles onto the chair across from him and fixes the other man with a stern glare. 'And don't call me Percy.'

Alvar chuckles. He reaches over and straightens Graves's tie. Graves raises a brow at him but Alvar only says, 'I haven't heard from you in months and then I get your pigeon and I think 'At last! He hasn't forgotten me', but, no, it's just work.' He shakes his head, in mock sadness. 'You know what all work and no play does to a man, Percy.'

Graves smirks. 'I play plenty.'

'But not with me, lately,' says Alvar, a wistful note to his voice. He looks Graves up and down and shrugs. 'Your loss, my friend.' But he smiles and winks as he says it.

The eternal flirt. Graves would roll his eyes but he's glad for this, the familiarity, the normalcy, though he knows none of it will distract him from thoughts of Credence. It's only been days since they first met but it already feels like years. He clears his throat. 'What about Jones, then?'

Alvar clucks his tongue. 'Food first, business later.'

'Fine,' says Graves, and looks the menu over, but in the end he just lets Alvar order for the both of them when a waiter comes to their table. He has no appetite tonight.

'What did you find on Wilmer Jones?' Graves asks as he pushes his freshly delivered ziti around the plate.

'I'm still eating.'

Graves gives him a look.

'OK,' says Alvar and wipes over his mouth with his napkin. He sips his grappa and leans back, thumb hooked in the strap of his suspenders. 'He was a small time gambler with big time debts, apparently.'

'How big?'

' _Big_.'

Graves sighs. 'Anything else?'

'There are rumours, about the Blue Mandrake. A secret room, charmed so only those who know the spell can see it and get in.'

Graves nods. He's heard the rumours.

'Seems our man Jones liked gambling there. If it exists.'

Graves runs a hand over his face.

'You don't look too surprised, my friend.' Alvar spears a piece of ziti with his fork.

'I'm not.' Graves rests his elbows on the table and leans forward. 'What else do you know about the Blue Mandrake? And Grindelwald?'

Alvar chews his ziti, thoughtfully. 'No doubt the same as you. Plenty of rumours, but nothing that would ever lead back to Grindelwald.'

Graves leans back and picks up his glass, but doesn't drink. 'And what about Credence Barebone?' Alvar frowns and Graves says, 'Grindelwald's...whatever he is.'

Alvar's brown eyes sparkle and his lips quirk. 'The squib?' Graves nods. Squib. Well, that remains to be seen. Alvar sets his fork down and leans his chin on steepled fingers. 'Not much. Heard Grindelwald keeps him on a tight leash.' 

Graves's grip on his glass tightens. 'Right.' Alvar gives him a searching look, but the other man only asks, 'Are you going to finish that?' pointing at his plate.

Graves shakes his head and Alvar starts in on his meal, too. The door opens, letting in a cool gust of air. Graves looks up. Gellert Grindelwald has just walked in, ushering Credence along beside him. Graves's stomach drops. How does Credence always manage to suck all the air out of a room?

Alvar looks up, too, follows Graves's gaze. He mutters under his breath, in Spanish. Nothing polite, Graves knows that much. 'I don't know if I should be seen here with you.'

'It's fine,' Graves says, shuffling his chair closer to Alvar's, placing a hand over the other man's. Tries to make it look intimate. More like a date, less like business.

Grindelwald's gaze crawls over the restaurant until it settles on the table where Graves and Alvar sit. There is a dark glint in his eyes as he holds a hand up to the maître d' and makes his way over. Credence, pale and jittery, staring at Graves and Alvar's joined hands, trails after him. 

A brunette, hair swept into a chignon, in the painting across the room spills her drink, the table below her erupting into giggles and guffaws as she apologises with a hiccough, only to spill more as she leans over. Graves only notices it peripherally, can't look away from Credence as he approaches, a few steps behind Grindelwald.

'Mr Graves, what a delight to see you again so soon.' Grindelwald says, with the slightest hint of a sneer. 'And your friend?'

'Alvar Ramos,' says Graves. Grindelwald must know the name, even if he doesn't recognise Alvar by sight, but he makes no indication if he does.

'Pleased to meet you. I'm Gellert Grindelwald.' Grindelwald pauses, turns to Credence, who is frowning at Alvar. 'This is Credence.'

Alvar nods at them both, lips curved in a tight smile. He flexes his fingers, so Graves squeezes them gently. They are warm beneath his, familiar. 

'Surprised to see you both here. The Blue Mandrake kitchens not up to your standard?' Graves tilts his chin up.

Grindelwald purses his lips. 'Credence likes to go out sometimes.'

Graves's gaze slides to Credence. He looks like he wishes he'd never stepped foot out of the door.

Grindelwald tracks the movement of Graves's eyes to Credence, then he looks back, challenging. 'What do you think of Credence's new suit, Mr Graves?' He asks, flattening the lapels of Credence's navy jacket, fingers lingering. His eyes remain on Graves. Credence bites his lip, eyes downcast. 'Doesn't he look handsome?'

'It's just swell.' Graves fights the urge to rake his gaze over Credence, longing to drink him in. Fights the greater urge to punch the smug tilt of Grindelwald's lips right off his face.

Alvar gives Graves a knowing look and leans forward to say, ' _Muy guapo_ ,' with a wink in Credence's direction. Credence colours slightly and Grindelwald levels Alvar with a glare the other man cheerfully returns.

An uneasy silence settles over the four men until the maître d' signals to Grindelwald from across the room.

'Ah, our table is ready, please excuse us Mr Graves, Señor Ramos,' Grindelwald says and tugs on Credence's elbow so he'll follow. 

'Good night, Mr Graves,' says Credence. It's the first thing he's said since they walked over. His voice shoots through Graves, sets something rattling in his throat. It's not entirely unpleasant.

'Good night, Credence.'

'Oh, you have got it bad, my friend,' says Alvar as Graves watches Credence walk away out the corner of his eye. Credence looks back at him, shoulders sloped unhappily, mouth turned down; Graves darts his gaze away, to where his hand still rests atop Alvar's on the table. Alvar jerks his chin in Credence's direction. 'And so does he. If you were trying to make him jealous, it worked.'

'I wasn't,' Graves mutters, but the words sit uneasily in his mouth. He pulls his hand away.

Alvar turns sombre. He grips Graves's chin in his fingers. 'Be careful, Percival.'

'People keep saying that to me.' Graves curls his hand around Alvar's wrist. 'I can take care of myself.'

Alvar shakes his head. 'I was going to ask you to take me home but the way you were looking at that boy...' He clucks his tongue. 'I would only wonder if you were thinking about him.'

'How could I think of anyone else when I'm with you?' It's easy to slip back into flirting with Alvar.

Alvar laughs. 'Still, what you need is a friend.' He stands, straightening his jacket. 'And some tequila.'

'I'll drink to that.'

'And who knows', Alvar says, waggling his brows, 'after a few, I may feel a little more than friendly.'

Graves smiles, properly, hand on the small of Alvar's back as they leave. He looks over to Credence and his smile falters when Credence's gaze locks with his, kindling that flame in his belly, spreading, suffocating. As he steps into the blessedly cool night air, he wonders what secrets hide behind that heartbreaking face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr [@gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/), if you like! :) My asks are always open.
> 
> By the way I love that some of you have been playing detective yourselves! It's really fun to read your suspicions, etc., so feel free to tell me your theories (here or on tumblr if you're shy). I really enjoy them :D
> 
> Alvar was written purely so I could have a wizard in a zoot suit – [this is the one Alvar wore](http://unframed.lacma.org/2016/01/26/search-authentic-zoot-suit) (it's probably a little late in the '40s for zoot suits, but I decided No-Maj fashions trickled into the magical world later). And I was basically picturing Diego Luna as Alvar.
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so long, by the way. I spent most of June working on [my entry for this challenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Anonymous_Fic_Game/profile). I can't tell you which one is mine, yet, but you can go have a guess if you feel so inclined. :)
> 
> Italian and Spanish:  
> 'Come stai' means 'how are you' (which maybe most people know, but just in case!)  
> 'È troppo magra' means, according to an online translator and my mother, 'you're too thin'. Apologies if it's not quite right! All I inherited from my nonna was a love of spaghetti and my short stature. My Italian skills are quite limited.  
> 'Muy guapo' (hopefully) means 'very handsome'.


	6. they live by night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than others but I think (hope) the end will make up for that. 
> 
> Thanks to [morwrach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach) for looking over the ending for me.
> 
> Title from the 1948 film of the same name.

Footsteps follow Graves, syncopated with his own, echoing in the empty hallway. They stop, a fraction of a second after he stops. Someone's been tailing him for three blocks, and they haven't been subtle about it. Graves let them, though, wanted to see what would happen if he got his shadow somewhere out of the way, and confronted them.

He had spent the night at Alvar's, after they left D'Angelo's, and slept late, worn out and soaked in tequila. A note from Alvar and a hangover potion were waiting for him when he woke up. Once his head cleared, he had left Alvar a note of his own, and spent the day trying to track down the password spell for the elusive Blue Mandrake backroom. Tina's boss, Abernathy – who had inexplicably risen to the position of director of magical security – had been at one of the gambling dens, but he didn't seem to notice Graves, who slipped quietly away before he could be seen. He didn't find the password, but he talked to a few more people who knew Wilmer Jones. They all said the same thing that Alvar had: Jones was a small time gambler, deep into debt. It could easily be written off as a man pushed to breaking point, but now that he's got someone on his tail, Graves is more certain than ever there's a bigger picture to be seen here.

Graves pauses by his office door, pretends he's examining something, then turns, wand in hand. But he's too slow. Light sparks in the dim hall, hitting Graves in the chest. His head cracks against the wall as he's thrown back. A swishing sound, someone apparating. Graves groans, sliding down, slumped against his office door.

More footsteps, quicker, now, frantic and someone yelling 'Mr Graves!' Cool hands on his face, brushing over his brow, but his vision sparkles so he can't see who it is. His eyes flutter shut and the world fades to black.

__

'Mr Graves, you're awake.'

'Mmm.' Graves tries to sit, but his head swims. He lets his head fall back, but groans when it knocks against whatever he's lying on. He thinks it's the Chesterfield in his office, but only remembers being hit outside the door, and then nothing. 'How did I get here?' There is the metallic tang of blood at the back of his throat and his tongue throbs. He must have bitten it when he hit his head.

'I carried you in,' says the voice and Graves cracks open an eye. The beautiful face of Credence Barebone stares down at him, illuminated by the streetlights shining through the window behind Graves. 'Well, half-dragged, half-carried.' Credence blinks, concern written on his lovely features.

'Thanks, angel,' Graves says. Of course it would be Credence who found him. They just keep on colliding. He pats the space next to his hip and Credence sits, tentatively, hands pressed between his knees. His head is turned from Graves, who studies his profile through half-lidded eyes. The slope of his cheekbone, the tight angle of his jaw, the shadow under his eye. He looks troubled, or maybe just looks like trouble, but Graves wants to rub the crease from his brow, either way. His stomach turns so he reluctantly closes his eyes, again. He takes a deep breath through his nose. 'Didn't happen to see who hit me, did you?'

'No, sorry.' The Chesterfield creaks as Credence shifts his weight. 'I came around the corner just before you passed out.'

'Never mind. Not like there's a shortage of people who'd want to knock me out.' And the Jones case has only expanded that list, Graves thinks. Starting with Gellert Grindelwald.

Credence's lips quirk. 'I'm not sure I believe that.'

'You're sweet.' Graves attempts sitting, again, with a little more success. He rests on one elbow, runs a hand over his brow. 'How long was I out?'

'Just a few minutes.'

The world tilts as Graves nods. He presses his face to the leather arm of the couch. Credence rests a hand, lightly, on his shoulder. 'Are you OK?' 

'Just swell.' He lifts a hand, waves it in the air. 'There's a potion on that shelf over there, in a blue bottle. Think you can get it for me?'

'Sure.'

The couch shifts as Credence stands, and Graves rolls onto his side, head pillowed on the arm, hands folded over his chest. He watches the other man through slitted eyes as he retrieves the potion. The shelf is on the other side of the room, crammed with glass bottles, ingredients, trinkets and one folding camera. A strip of wallpaper hangs forlornly, beside it. Graves never can get it to stick, no matter which spell he uses. It's like the walls are offended by his taste in décor, trying to shake it off. Credence reaches to grab the bottle, jacket riding up, giving Graves an unobstructed view of his slim hips, the swell of his ass in his well-fitted trousers. Even with a possible concussion, Graves can't help but drink in the sight, desire pitching in his stomach.

Credence turns back and catches Graves looking at him. Graves doesn't look away. Credence ducks his head, frowning, as he steps around a box of files, making his way back to the couch. Their hands brush as Graves takes the blue bottle. He removes the stopper and drinks. The potion is cool, sticky, bland. It clears his head, but he stays stretched along the couch, hands folded on his stomach. Credence sits closer this time, angled toward him. Their thighs press together, setting Graves's skin buzzing beneath his flannel trousers. 'What brings you to my office, in the middle of the night?' 

Credence shrugs, one long finger playing with a split in the seam of the couch's cushion. 'Do you know who killed Mary Lou...and Mr Shaw?'

'That why you're here? Curious about the investigation?'

'A little.' Credence's tone is too light, eyes averted. He leaves the split in the couch and wrings his hands. 'I mean, um. I guess I want to know who did it.'

'You and me both.' Graves eyes him. 'But, no, I don't know.'

Neither man says anything more; Graves waves a hand and the radio on the shelf above them turns on, frequency hissing and whining as the dial turns, finally settling on a station playing gentle jazz.

Credence blinks up at the radio then looks at Graves. He's almost smiling but it falters. He looks away, rests a palm on the brown leather, a mere inch from Graves's hip. 'You and that man, last night, are you...you seemed close.'

'Mmm. We've known each other a long time.' Credence says 'oh', bites his lip. Graves rubs his ear and nudges Credence's hip with his knee. He smirks, can't help but add, 'Jealous, angel?'

'No,' Credence replies too quickly. 'I just thought...' he trails off, looks at Graves. Alternating bands of shadow and light fall across his face; his eyes are in shadow, his lips are not. They're pink, wet where his tongue nervously flicks over them. Graves's mouth goes hot. He shifts so the light catches Credence's eyes, deep and shining. 

'Thought what?'

'Nothing,' he says with a sigh. 'But...there was something else I wanted to ask you.'

'Yeah?' Graves curls a hand over Credence's knee. He squeezes, gently. Credence swallows thickly, rests his own hand just above it, not quite touching. 

'I know you're busy with the...murders but could you try to find Modesty's real family? Or somewhere else for her to live? I can't...' He sighs, hooks his little finger over Graves's, then pulls it away again, blotches of pink high on his cheeks. 'I know there are laws, about No-Majes and all, but I don't know who else to ask.'

'Of course.'

Credence sags, relieved. 'Thank-you. I've been worried about her, since Ma...'

'Won't Chastity look after her?'

'Yes, but I-I want her to have a normal life. She's only nineteen.'

Graves rubs his thumb in circles over Credence's knee. 'There didn't seem to be much love lost between you.'

'She's still my sister.'

A car honks, jarring with the tune playing on the wireless. Graves had almost forgotten anything outside of the office existed. He leans a little closer to Credence, amazed that he can make his kindness sound like it's nothing.

'Why are you looking at me like that?' Credence's eyes dip away, then back again.

'You're something else, you know?'

The song Credence sung that first night at The Blue Mandrake comes on the radio. _'I've got it bad and that ain't good,_ ' a woman croons. Tell me about it, thinks Graves, as they look at each other, in the low light. Graves wonders if they're thinking the same thing. If Credence is wondering why he can't help but trust Graves, even if he should be wary. If Credence wants to kiss Graves as much as Graves wants to kiss him. The moment seems fraught, so Graves only brushes a thumb over the shell of Credence's ear. Credence's eyes close. 

'What about your family? Don't want to know about them, where you come from?' Graves should mention the Ilvermorny letter, see if Credence knows about it. But he doesn't. Lets the words rest, unsaid, somewhere between his diaphragm and Adam's apple. He doesn't want to think about the investigation, murder and lies, right now. Credence's eyes snap open.

' _No_.'

'OK.'

'Sorry, I...'

'It's fine.' Graves cradles Credence's jaw in his palm. Credence closes his eyes, again, leans into the touch. His breath quickens. Graves repeats, voice low, 'It's fine.'

Credence shifts closer. He reaches out his own hand and places it over Graves's heart. It thunders at Credence's touch.

'That man, Alvar, he's not your boyfriend?'

'No.'

Credence bites his lip. 'Mr Graves...' he starts but never finishes, if he was going to say anything else, because then he's leaning forward, pressing his lips to Graves's. Maybe Graves should stop him, but instead he kisses back, licks along the seam of that candied mouth until Credence opens to him and their tongues meet. He knows everything has been building to this moment, this inevitable kiss. 

Graves threads a hand through Credence's hair, tilting his face for a better angle. Credence licks into his mouth, tongue hot, curious. Graves moans, pulls away, brushes his nose over Credence's cheek, kisses his jaw. The radio plays on but all Graves can hear is his roaring blood, Credence's hard breaths and soft whimpers, the slick smacking of their lips. Credence sits back, looking at Graves, runs a thumb along his chin, presses it to the dimple there. His lips quirk.

What am I doing, thinks Graves, and then Credence crowds him against the corner of the couch, kisses him again, hands firm on his shoulders. He's stronger than he looks. Something in Graves's stomach, his chest, is unspooling, threading through his body with Credence's mouth on his. Graves smears kisses along Credence's jaw and down his neck, whispers a spell to open the top buttons of Credence's shirt so he can get to more of that pale, gorgeous skin. His hands slide to Credence's waist, under his jacket, holding tight. He relishes the taste of Credence's skin, the heady scent of his cologne, the heat of his body on top of him, under his hands. Breath shallow, Credence presses his face to the crook of Graves's neck as Graves sucks a bruising kiss over his pulse. He pulls away, captures Credence's lips with his own, again, the younger man moaning, low, into his mouth. As first kisses go, it's one of the steamier Graves has been party to. He wouldn't have thought Credence had it in him, but then Credence is full of surprises.

Credence kneels over Graves, straddling one of his legs. Graves's hand slips to Credence's knee, up his thigh. It curls over the seam of Credence's pants, fingers pressing into soft flesh, strong muscle. Credence hums, happily, but then he is pulling away, wide shining eyes and bruised lips. 'I shouldn't,' Credence says. Graves nods, feeling feverish, head crackling. Credence presses his lips together, eyes on Graves's mouth, leaning closer again with each breath, until their noses are brushing. 'I can't.'

'I know,' Graves says, and pulls him down for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. They finally kissed, huh? I wasn't going to post this, yet, but I got impatient. (By the way, if there are any glaring spelling mistakes, please feel free to point them out).
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :D My asks/messages are always open!


	7. to have and have not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from the 1944 film of the same name

There is a spring in Graves's step that hasn't been there since at least 1938. He feels like a younger man, carefree, or as carefree as he ever was. The cold air against his face, the drizzling clouds above, can't bring him down. And all because of a kiss. Well, Graves thinks, as he dodges a small, scruffy dog, tongue wagging as it trots down the street, petting session would be more accurate. He smirks. Made him feel like he was back in Ilvermorny, all eager roaming hands never straying beneath that final layer of clothes, no matter how much they itched to.

When Credence had eventually pulled away, said, voice hoarse, that he had to leave, he had looked thoroughly debauched. Pink lips swollen, eyes glassy, curls mussed from where Graves's fingers had loosened them. The memory is enough that Graves wants to shed his trench coat, cool himself down. It really is like being at Ilvermorny, blood so quick to heat at the mere thought of Credence. The sizeable love-bite that Graves's mouth had drawn from the pale skin over Credence's pulse was, regretfully, healed by Graves's own hand not long after, as were his kiss-swollen lips. It was a pity, like destroying art, but Graves knew he couldn't send Credence home looking like that. And he can always suck the bruise into Credence's skin, kiss his lips until they are all bee-stung again. 

Graves ducks into a diner for a steaming hot cup of coffee that he gulps down, sitting at the counter, before he ducks out, again, leaving a generous tip for the waitress who served him.

He remembers how Credence had paused by his door, one hand curled over the jamb, long fingers drumming an uneven rhythm. The flickering soft light from the hall kissed his hair, the curve of his ear, as he stood looking at Graves, lip caught between his teeth. All shy again, he had asked if Graves would meet him for lunch, today, at a No-Maj automat of all places. 

'Nowhere I'd rather be,' Graves had said, trailing his knuckles along Credence's jaw. Credence pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and left with the widest grin Graves had yet seen on his face. That smile alone was more than enough to tide Graves over until lunch.

He knows that kissing Credence, letting Credence kiss him, isn't the best idea he's had – and he's had plenty of bad ideas – but even in the cold, sobering light of morning, he can't begin to regret it. For once, he's looking forward to something other than a bottle of Firewhiskey. But it's early, yet, and he still has a job to do.

He tips his hat at the witch refreshing the cleaning charms in the lobby of his office building – she waves, frowning, hair bundled up in a blue scarf, tied in a knot on top of her head – and bounds up the stairs.

A light tan pigeon is waiting for him when he gets to his office. It's preening itself on the ledge outside and he knows immediately it's from Alvar – no one else fashions little bowties for their pigeons to wear. Graves shakes his head, lips quirked, but the pigeon looks happy enough. He opens the window to let it in and takes the message from its claws. Its wings flutter and Graves waves his hand, opening the desk drawer that houses the bag of birdseed. The pigeon flies over and settles atop the bag, pecking at the contents happily.

Beyond his door, the tenants of the other offices begin to arrive; the swish and crack of apparating, doors opening and closing, quiet murmurs from the few who greet each other.

Graves reads the message over, sinking into his chair, brow furrowing. Alvar has looked into Shaw for him, asked his contacts what they know about the No-Maj senator, inexplicably embroiled in the magic world. Most of the information is filtered through rumours, but it seems Shaw had shady business dealings with some witch or wizard, unknown. Smuggling, trafficking, bootlegging. The photos _The Ghost_ reporter had dug up of Shaw going in and out of magic establishments, make sense, now. Once again, whoever is behind it, is cast in shadow, but Grindelwald knew Shaw, and it wouldn't surprise Graves if he was involved. He wouldn't be the first nightclub owner to break the law.

Then Jones, who was deep into debt, kills Shaw. Maybe it was his payment: he couldn't clear his debts with dragots, and so he had to clear them with blood. Mary Lou's, Shaw's and, then, his own. A picture is forming in Graves's mind, dark and unpleasant, but even that is not enough to dampen his spirits, this morning. 

Graves sets the parchment down, and pushes away from his desk. Alvar has tracked down the password charm for the illicit backroom at the Blue Mandrake – Alvar is pleased to know the rumours are all true, the backroom does exist, he writes – but that won't be any use before tonight. Until then, Graves has a date to keep.

__

Graves pushes through the revolving door of the automat, just minutes before he's set to meet Credence. There are only three other patrons inside, too early for the lunch rush, too late for the breakfast crowd. The booths are upholstered in seafoam green and teal vinyl, the tables edged in shining chrome; linoleum tiles line the floor, clean, but peeling at the corners. Credence is waiting in a booth, at the back, fiddling with a napkin, lip sucked between his teeth. He's wearing a light blue sweater vest beneath a blue check sport coat, a matching tie nestled at his throat. His elbows rest on the table, eyes darting around the room. They light up as they settle on Graves.

'Hello, Mr Graves,' he says, as Graves approaches the table, passing the booth where a woman sits, waiting to give out small change for anyone who needs it. She looks bored, tapping long nails on the counter and smacking gum as she idly flips through a magazine. Credence's voice is full of relief, like maybe he thought Graves wouldn't show.

Graves shucks his coat and slides into the booth across from Credence. He takes off his hat and sets it on the seat beside him. 'Miss me, angel?'

'My whole life,' says Credence. The way Credence blinks owlishly, cheeks tinged pink, suggests that, maybe, he hadn't meant to say those words out loud. Graves blinks back, tongue heavy in his mouth. No easy words, no smart remarks, come to mind; for once, he's glad. Credence folds the napkin in front of him, flattens it out again, and clears his throat. He looks up and says, 'Are you hungry, Mr Graves?'

'I could eat,' Graves says, still reeling from Credence's words. Missed him his whole life. What does that even mean? Graves can guess, but it's too much to think about with only coffee in his veins.

Credence slides out of the booth and stands. He tugs on his cuffs, more a nervous habit than trying to straighten his clothes. 'Should we get lunch?'

Graves nods and follows Credence as he moves around to the rows of vending machines, which line two walls, backlit signs above proclaiming, 'Cakes,' 'Pies', 'Sandwiches' and more. They each pick up a tray and stand before the rows of food. Behind the vending machines, the kitchen staff bustle, making food, cleaning plates, refilling the compartments. Graves catches glimpses of them through the glass. A flash of red curls bunched under a hair net behind the pecan pie, the slope of a nose through a plate of jiggling green jello.

Credence rests his weight on one leg while he contemplates the choices before him. Graves looks at him sidelong, absently pushes a button and grabs the sandwich in the compartment, not caring what's on it. Credence's suit fits well to his lissome frame, the curve of his shoulders, despite current fashion favouring a boxier silhouette. He looks good in blue. Credence finally makes a decision, presses a button and takes out a turkey sandwich, on rye. They move along to the desserts – each picking a slice of cherry pie – and then stop by the coffee dispensers. Graves slides two nickels he transfigured in the slot, turns the handle and watches coffee stream from the dolphin head spout, into the waiting cup below. Standing close by him, Credence does the same. 

Trays loaded with food and coffee – Graves takes his black, Credence with a dash of cream – they make their way back to the booth. Graves bites into his sandwich, which seems to be chicken, and looks at Credence. 'No trouble getting home last night?' Graves asks, mentally adding 'or at home.'

Credence shakes his head. 'Everything was fine. Gellert must have been in bed when I got back. I didn't see him,' Credence says, as if answering Graves's mental question.

So they don't share a room, Graves thinks, and gulps his coffee, too bitter. Good to know, though it doesn't stand for much. Graves should turn the conversation elsewhere, ask Credence about his favourite song, or movie, or anything else. But, lately, he seems to only be led by the detective inside of him or his desire for Credence. The detective wins out and he says, 'Mind if I ask how long you've known Grindelwald?' 

'Is this an interrogation or a...' Credence blushes as he trails off. 

'A what?'

'A date,' he almost whispers.

'It's definitely a date.' Graves winks. He rests his ankle against Credence's beneath the table. 'I'm just curious about you.'

Credence blinks. His shyness has crept back, in the curve of his half smile, the tremble of his long fingers. Graves could almost believe that the Credence of last night was merely a lust fuelled dream, if it weren't for the way he rubs his foot against Graves's ankle under the table, the coy dip of his lashes. 'I've known him since I was about sixteen. He'd known Mary Lou longer – I remember seeing him at the church, sometimes, going years back,' Credence says with a shrug, 'but I never met him properly until later.'

'Yeah?' Graves grabs the sugar, pours some into his coffee, and stirs. He wonders why Grindelwald would approach Mary Lou, how he found Credence. He voices the second question. 

'He said he had a vision of me. A child that belonged to the magic world but stuck with No-Majes. He introduced himself to Mary Lou as a kind of benefactor, I guess.' Credence takes a bite of his sandwich, chews carefully and swallows. 'He gave her money, kept an eye on me through her but...he didn't know how she was treating me.' Credence shifts in his seat as he sips his coffee, doesn't meet Graves's eyes.

Graves leans forward, pushing his coffee aside. 'A vision? Grindelwald is a seer?'

'Yeah.' Credence's tone is offhand, like he thought everyone knew, but the revelation is unsettling.

A pair of women file in, purses tucked under their arms, and they sit at one of the small tables in the middle. They set their purses and coats down, start talking about some guy they work with called Phillip. Apparently, Phillip is a real 'dreamboat' but kind of a 'wet blanket'. They chatter away, while Graves and Credence sit in silence.

Graves wishes he hadn't mentioned Grindelwald, now, the atmosphere between the two men switching from easy to forced. He stabs his fork into his pie and, desperate, says, 'Did you hear the one about the Beater who wondered why the Bludger kept getting bigger?' He pauses for effect, takes a breath, finishes, 'Then it hit him.'

A startled laugh bubbles out of Credence, that tinkling vibraphone laugh, and all the tension bleeds from Graves, from the air around them. 'That's a terrible joke,' Credence says, but he's smiling, and that's all Graves cares about.

'I know.'

A busboy in a white uniform and a wedge cap comes by and whisks their empty plates and trays away. Graves thanks him and turns to Credence. He's moved onto his pie, now, lips stained even darker from the cherry juice. They glisten as his tongue darts out to catch a glob of pulp in the corner of his mouth. Graves wants nothing more than to kiss Credence, taste the cherry on those lips, feel his warm lithe body against his. 

He looks at the No-Majes around them and groans, inwardly. 'I appreciate you asking me out, but did you have to suggest this place?'

Credence looks up from his pie with a frown. 'Huh?'

Graves lowers his voice. 'No-Majes.' He gestures around them. 'Not so keen on seeing two men touch much.' And definitely not the way he wants to touch Credence.

Credence blushes, looks down, draws his hands into his lap. 'Oh. Uh. I thought it'd be safer. Um. You know if we weren't seen together where anyone knows us.' Credence waves a hand. 'Me.'

'Are you telling me it's dangerous to be seen with you?' Graves edges his tone with playfulness but Credence startles, eyes wide. 'I don't...I don't know.'

'I'm sorry, angel, I'm only kidding with you.' Graves sighs. 'But we'd be safe at my office. I can apparate us there.'

Credence tilts his head. A coy smile curls over his lips. 'Are you trying to get me alone, Mr Graves?'

Graves smirks. 'Is it working?'

Credence bites his lip, casts his eyes over the other patrons, then back to Graves. He leans forward with a twinkle in his eye and whispers, 'Yes'.

__

Weak, grey light filters through the venetian blinds at Graves's office window. The room is still and quiet as he opens the door and lets Credence in before him. Earlier, last night had almost seemed like a dream, Credence in his office, tending his wounds, kissing him. But as he closes the door, shutting off the rest of the world, the dream descends upon them again.

Credence stands in the middle of the room, the glossy waves of his hair catching the light as he looks around. Graves watches him, a moment, then Credence turns and sees him. His lips quirk. Graves grins and asks Credence if he wants a drink. When he says no, Graves takes Credence's hand and pulls him into an embrace.

'Oh,' says Credence as Graves winds his arms about his waist, holds him close. 'This is nice.'

'Mm,' Graves agrees. It feels right to have Credence in his arms, soft and pliant. He mutters a spell to turn the radio on and, though he is rarely fond of dancing, finds himself swaying to the rhythm. Credence follows his movements, loops his arms around Graves's neck. Barely midday, completely sober, dancing with a beautiful young man in his office. A dream, indeed.

After a few minutes, Credence murmurs, 'I didn't think you brought me to your office for _dancing_ '.

Graves huffs. He pulls away and runs his thumb over Credence's brow. 'I'm not sure what you mean, angel'.

Credence smiles, cheeks pink, and then leans forward, softly pressing his lips to Graves's. It's so tender and gentle, barely there compared to the passion of last night, but it thrills Graves all the same. He coaxes Credence's lips open, swallowing his sigh as their tongues touch. The taste of cherry lingers in Credence's mouth, tart and pulpy.

He tugs on Credence's waist, walks them backwards until he hits the Chesterfield and sits, bringing Credence down on top of him, a warm, solid weight. Credence's knees land either side of his thighs; Graves's hands rest on his slim waist, Credence's hands braced on Graves's shoulders. Their noses bump and Credence huffs a soft, shaky laugh. 

Graves loosens Credence's tie, unbuttons his shirt and presses his lips to the hollow of Credence's throat just like he wanted to that first night. The hair peeking between Credence's open collar tickles his lips. There is the faint taste of salt, clean skin, on his tongue when he presses an open mouthed, wet kiss, to the same spot. Above him, Credence gasps, fingers tightening on Graves's shoulders, and something in his blood sings under Graves's mouth, his hands. Almost like magic, Graves thinks, and then Credence shifts his hips and he loses that train of thought.

More wet, sucking kisses to Credence's neck, his collarbones, his chest, until Credence pulls away, looks Graves in the eye. He blinks, several times, then clambers off of Graves, to sit beside him, chest heaving. Graves lays a careful hand on his knee. 'OK, angel?'

Credence nods. 'Perfect,' he says, with a shy smile. 'I just, um. Need to catch my breath.'

'OK,' says Graves, looking Credence over. The flush on his cheeks spreads down his neck, disappearing beneath his white shirt. His tie is barely hanging on, sweater vest bunched around his waist where Graves's hands had gripped it, trousers rumpled and sitting tighter across his crotch than before. Graves scrubs a hand over his face. Credence looks about as far gone as Graves feels. All dazed, head thick like he's been socked with a blackjack. 

He sucks in a deep breath, then slides his arm around Credence and pulls him close. Credence rests his head on Graves's shoulder, places his hand on Graves's thigh. Tap, tap, tap go his fingers as they beat a nervous rhythm over Graves's inseam. He rests his free hand over Credence's and laces their fingers together, swiping his thumb gently over his soft skin. 

Their heavy, wet breaths, eventually even out; the radio plays a slow, sweet song, as they sit side by side. Graves can almost forget that he only met Credence because his adoptive mother was murdered, that another No-Maj he's connected to was murdered not long after Graves saw him shove Credence, call him a freak. That Grindelwald acts like he owns Credence, and Credence never seems entirely comfortable when Grindelwald is with him. It's not the kind of forget he usually finds at the bottom of a Firewhiskey bottle, though. This is sweeter, purer. 

A new song starts, the reedy moan of a clarinet crackling through the cheap speakers of Graves's radio. The singer's mournful voice chimes in. A tale of longing, heartbreak. The usual. 

'I like this song,' Credence says, voice thick.

'Me too.'

'Mr Graves...' Credence turns, rubs his cheek against Graves's, barest hint of stubble rasping. 'Will you kiss me again?'

'Of course.' Graves moves so he's facing Credence, can capture those plush lips with his own. It's chaste, compared to the other kisses they have shared, and shorter, too. It's Credence who pulls away first, again, gaze lingering on Graves's mouth as he says, 'Can I have that drink after all?'

'Sure.' Graves stands on shaky legs, and crosses the room. He watches from half-lidded eyes as Credence stands, too, straightens himself. He aimlessly wanders to Graves's desk, fingers trailing over the lacquered surface. 

'You kept the photo,' says Credence, as he picks up the photograph Graves had found at the Second Salem church. It's been propped against the Banker's lamp on his desk since he brought it back.

'I did.' Graves pauses when he sees Credence set the photo down, pick up a piece of parchment, frowning. Must be something from the case he forgot to put away, and then it hits him like a bucket of ice water. The list of Ilvermorny letters.

'What's this?' Credence runs a finger along his name, then moves up to point at the Ilvermorny crest.

'A list of letters sent from Ilvermorny in 1935.' Graves sets the tumblers of whiskey down. He pinches the bridge of his nose. 'You would've been about ten.' 

'I'm...I'm a squib.' Credence's voice is tight, small. 'Why is my name on it?'

'I don't know, angel. Sometimes squibs get sent letters.' 

'But I never got a letter.'

Graves spreads his hands as if to say 'I'm sorry,' but he's not sure what for. Not yet. 

'How did you get it...why...' Credence trails off, eyes widening in understanding. 'You investigated me.' He pulls back as Graves reaches out to him. Graves tries to ignore the tight band around his throat when Credence says, all betrayal and accusation, 'I trusted you.'

'It's my job, angel.' The words fall flat, tripping loose from his clumsy tongue. He feels like a heel. He should have told Credence about the letter, earlier.

Credence's eyes narrow. 'Is it? Are you getting paid? I thought it was just a favour for a friend.' 

'It is, but...' Graves flounders. It had charmed him, before, that Credence could render him, Percival Graves, fast talker extraordinaire, speechless, but now it rankles.

'But you didn't trust me. I trusted you, but you didn't trust me.' Credence's shoulders sag and he turns away, rests the palm of his hand on the desk. 'That's it, isn't it?'

Graves can't hear his thoughts past the buzzing in his head, the pounding in his chest. He takes too long to answer and Credence moves around the desk, head bowed. It feels like he's been hit with _Petrificus Totalus_ , brain working but body completely frozen. Credence walks to the door and Graves finally springs into action, crosses the room and catches him by the elbow. 'Hey, I'm sorry, I trust you. OK?'

Credence slips his elbow out of Graves's grip. 'Sure,' he says, 'Sure, you're sorry, you trust me, it's OK...' he trails off with a sigh. He rests his head against the frame, doe eyes looking up at Graves, shining and sad.

'And we're OK?' Graves hates the desperate edge to his voice. He takes Credence's hand and squeezes. 

Credence only nods, lips pressed together tight. His face is pale, now, the flush of pleasure gone. When he opens the door and says, 'But I have to go,' it sounds like goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Come [find me on tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> I reworked the beater/bludger joke from 'Did you hear about the baseball player who wondered why the ball kept getting bigger? Then it hit him.' 
> 
> I had a number of references for the automat but the colour scheme and booth etc. design is based on the L&L automat in my beloved Agent Carter.


	8. spellbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the 1945 film of the same name
> 
> and please remember i'm updating tags as I go so keep an eye on them :) (the abuse tags are not between Graves & Credence).

'But I have to go.' Those five words echo in Graves's mind, floating in the bottle of Firewhiskey he's been trying to drown them in since Credence walked out his door. The radio hisses white noise, and there is the distant sound of traffic humming, a few late workers moving about in the adjacent offices, Graves's own sighs and groans. The sun has long since set, and his office lights are out, leaving only the yellow glow of the streetlights streaming in the window to illuminate his self pity. 

He should have told Credence about the Ilvermorny letter, there's no two ways about it. But he had wanted to keep that card close to his chest, play it later, when there was an advantage. Now, he's lost it. He shifts, Chesterfield creaking beneath him, and winces as the empty bottle he's been holding rolls onto the floor and smashes. He doesn't repair it. With a groan, he swings his legs around, manages to push himself up so he's sitting. He rests his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. 

He summons a sobering up potion, narrowly avoiding bludgeoning himself when it careens toward his head. The potion goes down uneasily and tastes even worse than his hangover potions. Sharp and bitter. But it works, and quick. His head clears, though it doesn't lift the uneasy weight from his stomach, his chest. Glass crunches under his feet as he shifts, sticking to the soles of his shoes. He sighs. Drinking himself into oblivion won't help solve the murders and it won't make Credence forgive him. Tackling the murders seems like the easiest thing, right now, so he apparates to the Blue Mandrake, ready to find the secret gambling room, with the message Alvar sent him tucked safely in his coat.

It's cold and the scent of rain is in the air, mingling with exhaust fumes from the passing cars. Graves casts a subtle transfiguration charm on his face, not wanting to be recognised. Alvar's contact had said access is gained from outside, not inside, the main club, so he straightens his clothes and makes for the back entrance. It's much the same as the back of any nightclub, but Graves can feel magic fizzing in the air all around him. It makes his hair stand on end. He shakes himself, stands near a trashcan and mutters the incantation Alvar had written down.

A small, unobtrusive door reveals itself. Graves opens it and steps into a grimy hallway. His footsteps echo on the bare concrete as he follows the sounds of chattering and music to the end of the hallway where two security guards in tuxedos stand. Light peeks out from under the garish green door they guard, and the sounds of laughter and bank balances bleeding are louder. Must be where all the action happens.

The security guard on the right – a tall woman with dark skin and silver hair, idly twirling her wand – pays him little attention as he approaches, hands in his pockets. She just looks bored. The security guard on the left, however, frowns. He's a head shorter than the woman, stocky, with a handsome baby face under a mess of blond curls.

'Hey, I know you,' he says. Oh, thinks Graves. There must be an anti-transfiguration field in here. Figures. The security guard's eyes widen. 'You're that private auror.'

'Private auror?' Graves hedges, thinks about backing away. Maybe they won't tell their boss, just think he's here to gamble like any of the other poor schmos in there. If there's an anti-transfiguration field, he probably can't apparate, either, and isn't too sure about other spells. He stands his ground. 

But then the security guard follows up with, 'Thanks to you, and your dirty pictures, my husband left me.'

'Ah,' Graves says. So that's why he looks familiar. He wonders if he can make it back down the hall before the security guard hexes him. He's got that look about him. But Graves doesn't expect the guy to punch him, so he doesn't duck when a fist swings at him. He staggers from the force of the blow, but rights himself long enough to land a punch of his own. It's a sucker punch, and Graves isn't proud of that, but it has the security guard doubling over; the other security guard just blinks at him, still twirling her wand. 

He runs back down the hall, feet and heart pounding, jaw throbbing, and out of the door. Outside, he casts a disillusionment in case the security guards have followed him. Doubled over, hands braced on his knees, trying to catch his breath, he wonders why he's always getting knocked around for someone else's infidelity.

__

Graves waits five minutes before he removes the disillusionment charm and heals his bruised jaw and knuckles. He can't get into the Blue Mandrake backroom, but he can pass the information on to Tina, and she or someone else will be able to get in there, ask about Jones. It's the best he can do, for tonight. He decides to walk home, and casts an Impervius charm moments before it starts pouring. A walk in the cool air, the rain falling around him will do him good. He sighs, turns his collar up, and tucks his hands into his pockets. A familiar figure, walking through a pool of light, catches his eye as he's about to turn in the opposite direction.

'Credence!' Graves yells and runs to catch up with him. 

He wouldn't blame Credence if, recognising his voice, he hurried away but he stops, shoulders tense. When Graves approaches, he only turns halfway. He isn't wearing an overcoat, and he's drenched, head to toe. His usually coiffed hair is plastered to his forehead, and his brow is furrowed. 

'Hey, I wanted to...' Graves trails off as he notes the suitcase in Credence's hand, knuckles white, clutched around the handle. 'Going somewhere?'

Credence's face is half cast in shadow, inscrutable beyond that. The set of his shoulders, his whole body, is uneasy, off, somehow. Graves doesn't blame him after what happened in his office, earlier. 

'I'm leaving,' is all Credence says, voice hoarse, and quiet. The pounding of the rain and of Graves's heart nearly drowns it out.

'Leaving?' Graves asks, swallowing. He settles his hands on his hips. 'Where are you going?'

Credence shrugs. He looks away, the light catching the rain as it runs down the sharp planes of his face. 'I don't know.'

'Nowhere to go?'

Credence shakes his head, looks back.

Graves sighs and runs a hand over his face. He holds his hand out for Credence's suitcase, but he pulls it out of Graves's reach. 'What...?' He starts, frowning at Graves's hand, then up at his face.

'C'mon, I'll take you to my place.' Graves takes a deep breath. 'If you want.'

Credence tilts his head away, and Graves, heart in his throat says, 'Or I can take you somewhere else. Just let me get you out of this rain.'

'I don't know...'

'Well, you could get wetter if you laid down in the gutter.' Graves pinches the bridge of his nose. It's not the time for jokes, but the words tumble out before he can stop them.

Credence only blinks, lips quirking. It's not an entirely happy gesture, and Graves aches to pull Credence to him. He doesn't. Credence sighs and hands his suitcase over. 'OK, your place,' he says, taking Graves's offered arm, and, 'Thank-you.' His fingers squeeze tight around Graves's bicep as he lets him apparate them to his apartment building.

__

The hallway outside of Graves's apartment is brightly lit with recently refurbished spell-work, showing up the water stained walls, the dingy carpet, the tarnished apartment numbers. Graves takes his wand out and lowers the wards, which are set to only allow him inside. Credence stands behind him, breathing loud in the quiet hallway. The scent of wet wool and his cologne overpowers the usual salt damp.

A hundred remarks flit through Graves's mind but he remains silent as he opens the door and lets Credence in ahead of him. He sets Credence's suitcase down and mutters ' _lumos_ ', levitating the ball of light into the sconces above the fireplace, another into the table lamp by the brown velveteen sofa. It dispels the shadows cast by streetlights through the lace curtains, illuminating the filing cabinet in one corner, the fireplace, the stacks of newspapers and rolls of undeveloped film, the wireless on the coffee table. 

Graves levitates his coat and hat to the stand by the door, and turns to Credence, who is standing in the middle of the rug, a small puddle forming at his feet as water drips down from his hair and sodden suit. His arms are hugged around his middle. An apology sits on Graves's tongue, just waiting to spill out but, as his gaze drifts up to Credence's face, it withers. His stomach lurches. A large red and purple bruise blooms across Credence's right cheek, and the corner of his bottom lip is split. 

Graves crosses the distance between them in two large strides. He lifts his hand, but stops short of touching Credence. 'What's this?' His hand hovers less than an inch from Credence's face, fingers tracing the shape of the bruise in the air.

Credence scowls, briefly, before he blinks the expression away. 'What does it look like?' The words are sharp but Credence's voice is soft. He rubs one hand over his bicep, face turned away from Graves.

'Fuck,' breathes Graves. 'That _bastard_.' Graves doesn't need to ask if it was Grindelwald who did this. He takes several deep breaths against the drumming in his chest, hands on his hips. He shakes his head. 'I'm sorry.'

'You didn't hit me.'

Graves frowns. 'Doesn't mean I can't be sorry.' He's sorry and he's angry and he's tired. He wants to punch Grindelwald, hex him until he can't walk, and he wants to hold Credence and never let him go. But he only gently traces the outline of the bruise with one finger and asks, 'Want me to heal this for you?'

'No.' Credence grabs Graves's hand, holds it a moment before he lets go. 'I want to remember...this is what he's really like.'

Graves nods, slowly. He doesn't like it, but he understands. 'That why you left?' 

'Yes,' Credence says, 'I couldn't stay. I won't live like that. Not again.' Credence's voice breaks over the last word. He shivers, and Graves remembers that he's soaked through.

'Here, let me dry you off,' Graves says, and gets his wand out from his inner pocket.

'Thanks,' Credence says, voice watery, as Graves casts a hot-air charm on his clothes and hair. Credence's curls are unruly, loosened by the rain, fluffed by the charm. He runs a hand through them and turns on the spot, looking over the room. 'You have a nice place.'

'Thanks.' Graves rubs the back of his neck. 'Do you want a drink, or anything to eat?' 

Credence shakes his head, trails a finger along the mantelpiece. He idly picks up a small clock, sets it down, then turns back to Graves. His eyes are clear and piercing and sad.

'Is there anything I can do?' Graves asks, feeling helpless. It doesn't sit well in him.

Credence bites his lip. His shoulders are straighter, now, but he looks up from under lowered lashes. He steps closer, but wavers. 'Could you...hold me?'

Graves's heart twists. 'C'mere,' he says, and pulls Credence to him. Credence winds his arms around Graves's waist and holds on tight. Down the hall a door slams, and Credence flinches. Graves strokes the back of his head, says, 'You're OK, sweetheart. You're safe here. You know that, don't you?' 

Credence nods into the crook of his neck. 'I know, I know,' he says, and Graves just holds him, as they stand in the middle of his living room. Credence is warm in his arms, but Graves has to fight to push a cold, sweeping anger away. Holds Credence a little tighter to ease the urge to apparate back to the Blue Mandrake, give Grindelwald exactly what he deserves and more.

Graves pulls back and kisses Credence's forehead. Credence's eyes flutter shut. His lips part and his face is flushed. Graves kisses his eyelids, his nose, his uninjured cheek, the corner of his mouth. He's about to ask if he can kiss him, properly, when Credence turns his head, captures Graves's lips with his own. Credence makes a soft, desperate noise in the back of his throat as their lips meet, hands fisting in Graves's shirt. 

Graves cups his hand around Credence's jaw, carefully, angling his face toward him so he can deepen the kiss. He rests his other hand on the small of Credence's back. He feels like he's drowning. Like he's being consumed by a slow burning fire, spreading from where his mouth meets Credence's, down his throat, his chest, spreading through his belly. The way Credence kisses back, all eager desperation, makes Graves think he must feel the same. He uses the hand on Credence's back to pull their bodies flush together. 

Rain drums on the fire escape, against the window. Thunder rumbles distantly. Inside the warmth of his apartment, Graves sighs when Credence slides his tongue into his mouth, lets his hand drift lower. It rests, now, just above the swell of Credence's ass.

Credence pulls back a little. Their noses brush and Graves can feel Credence's breath warm over his mouth when he asks, 'Will you take me to bed?' 

'Yes,' Graves says, with no hesitation, voice hoarse. He takes Credence's hand, kisses his knuckles, and, hands linked, leads them toward his bedroom. 

They stand at the foot of Graves's bed, looking at each other. Desire and anticipation coil in Graves's belly as his gaze devours Credence. He looks undone, already, in the light that spills in through the bedroom door and through Graves's open curtains. Credence rests one hand on a bed post, eyes dark and searching. Graves wants to draw the moment out, but he thinks it might kill him, so he moves closer, pushes at the lapels of Credence's jacket. Credence lets him slide it down, shrugs it off his arms. It crumples to the floor. 

Credence fists his hand around Graves's tie, pulls gently. Graves goes willingly. This kiss is more heated than the one in the living room, full of everything Graves can't say. As they kiss, Graves unbuttons Credence's waist jacket, his shirt, hands skimming his shoulders, skin soft under his palms as he pushes the fabric down. The clothes fold themselves, charmed absently, piling onto a chair by Graves's chest of drawers as each item is removed.

They break apart so Credence can take off his undershirt; Graves reaches out, trails his fingers along Credence's chest. Through the dark hair, down his sternum, over his belly, stopping at his waistband. 

'OK?' He asks and Credence nods, pulls his shoes and socks off, then lets Graves remove his belt, his trousers, until he is standing only in his underwear. Graves fits his hands around Credence's slender waist, draws him close. He holds him, hands stroking over his back, Credence's hands splayed over his shoulders. 

'That feels good,' Credence says, but he pulls back, hands trailing along Graves's arms, catching on his fingers.

He sits on the bed, springs creaking softly beneath him, shuffles back until he is lying against the pillows. Looking at Graves, he slides his underwear down and throws it aside. He bites his lip, hands resting on the plaid blanket. Graves leans against the bed post and drinks in the sight of Credence, naked, lying on his bed. His long legs, sharp hipbones, stretch of pale skin dusted with dark hair. He's breathtaking and Graves tells him so. He looks a moment longer, then kicks off his own shoes and kneels on the bed, braces himself over Credence.

Credence grabs his shoulders, pulls them flush together. As Graves kisses his neck, Credence tugs at his jacket, says, 'Take your clothes off.' He pushes his hands under, pulls at his shirt. 'Please,' he adds.

Graves vanishes his clothes with a flick of his hand. Credence smiles, a small thing, but it sets Graves's heart thundering.

'Better?' He asks and Credence nods, then pulls him down, again. His legs fall open, letting Graves fit into the cradle of them. Graves's breath catches as they touch, skin on skin, electricity crackling at every point of contact. He's never been short on lovers, has more notches in his bedpost than he cares to admit. But with Credence under him, they all fade away. He can't remember ever wanting someone this much.

Graves trails open mouthed kisses down Credence's sternum, over his trembling stomach, down to his hip, which he bites, lightly. Credence sucks in a breath. He looks down at Graves with dark, lust filled eyes. Graves nuzzles his thigh, hair tickling his face. Credence gasps and then he takes Credence into his mouth and the gasp becomes a moan.

'Oh,' Credence says, hand fluttering over Graves's shoulder. Graves places it on the back of his head, and then curls his own hands over Credence's hips. He breathes in the scent of Credence, relishes the feel of his cock hot and heavy in his mouth. He's always loved this. The heady thrill of bringing pleasure to a lover, especially so with Credence who is made to be touched. So responsive and sweet beneath him.

'Mr Graves...Percival,' Credence moans, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other fisted in the pillow above his head. His hips arch up and Graves swallows as his cock hits the back of his throat. 

'S-sorry...' Credence says, fingers curved over Graves's ear.

Graves pulls off, presses a wet kiss to Credence's thigh. 'Don't worry about it, angel.' He smirks. 'I can take it.' And then he sucks Credence down, again, breathing deeply through his nose. The sound Credence makes shoots straight to his own cock. He resists the urge to rut against the bed, focusses on Credence's fingers tight in his hair, the taste of him, salty and clean, his broken, catching breaths. Soon, he feels Credence's body grow taut, hips erratic under his hands.

'Percival, I'm going to...' he says and Graves hums, sucks him down further. Credence comes with a keening moan, thighs twitching, fingers going lax where they rest on his neck.

Graves swallows, then pulls off, wiping his mouth. He looks up, along the line of Credence's lean body. Head thrown back, neck arched elegantly, chest heaving. It glistens with sweat in the dim light. He trails kisses back up Credence's torso, to his neck, whispers, 'Feel good?'

'Yes,' Credence says. As Graves shifts, his erection brushes Credence's thigh and he hisses. 

'Do you want me to?' Credence asks, reaching between them, hand so close to Graves's cock.

'Yeah, please,' Graves says, heat rising in his chest.

Credence's eyes don't leave Graves's as he wraps his hand around him, moves his long fingers, in a tight, even rhythm, lip caught between his teeth.

'Fuck, _angel_ ,' Graves says, thrusting into his hand. Credence's thighs are still wrapped around him, and Graves braces his hands by Credence's head. He rests his forehead against Credence's, their breaths damp between them, the muggy scent of sex in the air. Credence's gaze flickers down, cheeks ruddy with pleasure, eyes wide. Graves nudges his face, catches his mouth in a sloppy kiss. His hips snap, the thought that it is Credence touching him, finally, driving them faster and faster. It's not long before he spills over Credence's hand, moan caught by Credence's tongue. They stay like that, mouths pressed together, Credence's hand, slick with come, around his cock, until Graves's elbows give out and he collapses on top of Credence. 

He huffs. 'Sorry.' 

'It's OK,' Credence says, rubbing a hand over his back, up over his shoulders, and down again.

Graves rolls onto his back, and pulls until Credence's head is resting on his chest. 'OK, angel?' he asks, fingers combing through Credence's damp hair. 

Credence nods, one hand brushing over Graves's chest, fingers tickling through his hair, lazily tracing circles around his nipple. Graves takes his hand, kisses his fingers, then rests their clasped hands over his heart.

'Perfect,' Credence says and Graves kisses the top of his head, holding him close.

__

'He knew I'd been to your office,' Credence says, later, when they are lying in bed, tangled in each other's arms. The rain has stopped, but the wind whistles through the alley, rattles the windows. Graves shivers at the sound, though it's warm inside, and hugs Credence closer. He had made them both dinner – cold sandwiches, and hot coffee, his specialty – before they retreated to his room, making love, again. Now, with passion and hunger sated, they laze, content. 'He thought we were...' Credence trails off, waves his hand.

'Doing what we were just doing?' Graves asks, smirking. He trails a hand down Credence's side, rests it on his hip. The curtains are still open, and Credence faces the window; Graves can see his eyes, clearly, the curve of his bare shoulder, skin glowing in the wan light.

'Yeah,' Credence answers. A small smile winds its way onto his lips, hint of teeth showing between his pink lips. He's beautiful and Grave has to squeeze his hip, feel the solid warmth of him under his palm to remember this isn't a dream.

Credence shifts, hooks an ankle over Graves's calf. The implication of Credence's words hits Graves in the same moment, and his blood turns cold. It's not only that Grindelwald hurt Credence because he suspected he was stepping out with Graves, but that he knew where Credence had been. He brushes Credence's hair off his forehead, drags a thumb lightly over the bruise Credence still won't let him heal. 'How did he know you were at my office?'

Credence shifts onto his back, bruise now out of sight. Graves can't forget it's there. 'I don't know,' Credence says, hands folded on his stomach, rising and falling with each steady breath. 'Maybe someone saw me.'

'Maybe', Graves says but another thought occurs to him. He summons his wand. 

'What are you doing?' Credence says and then, with a small smile, he tweaks the tip of Graves's wand. 'Did I mention I'm not surprised you have an obnoxiously long wand.' His eyes are bright, flirty.

Graves snorts. 'I just...I want to check something.'

Credence's smile falters. Graves rubs a hand over his stomach. 'It's OK, angel,' he says and then he focuses his magic, checking for any traces of a spell on Credence, who remains silent, face puzzled. 

It doesn't take long to find what he's looking for. A tracking charm. A few days old, at most. But there's something else. He nearly misses it, as his blood buzzes, the words Alvar had said the other night – 'Grindelwald keeps him on a tight leash' – ringing in his ears. The tracking charm is a violation, yes, but it's a trifle. Easily undone. The other spell, though, older and darker, wrapped around Credence, is complex. Graves frowns. He doesn't know what it is.

'What's wrong? What is it?' Credence asks, propping himself up on one elbow.

Graves shakes himself. 'It's a tracking charm.'

Credence's breath catches. 'What?'

With a flourish of his wand, Graves breaks the spell. 'It's OK, it's gone now,' he says, but the words sound hollow to his own ears. It's not okay, not by a long shot.

'How long has he been tracking me?' 

'A few days, I think.'

'Oh god, I feel sick. He'll know I'm here.' Credence sits up, hugs his knees to his chest. He rocks, gently, breath coming faster, heavier. 'I mean, I gave him a few sleeping draughts, but when he wakes up...'

Graves raises an eyebrow. 'A few?'

'Yeah. Three. Will it...it won't hurt him?' Credence's voice is small and tight. He swallows thickly.

Graves is amazed that Credence could be worried about Grindelwald, after everything. In his place, Graves would hope it would kill him. 'No.' Graves pushes himself up, puts an arm around Credence's shoulder. 'But he'll sleep well.' As long as no one finds him and gives him an antidote, Graves thinks, but doesn't say.

'I trusted him.' Credence fists a hand in his hair. 'What if he comes here...' Credence's gaze cuts to Graves, eyes wide.

'I've got you, you're safe, I promise,' Graves says as Credence rests his head on his shoulder. He makes a small, pained noise, arms still hugged around himself. Graves wants to tell Credence about the other spell, but Credence relaxes against him so he decides to wait until morning. Credence needs rest. And Graves needs to think.

That spell, that dark magic wrapped around Credence isn't like anything Graves has felt before. It was tight and ugly. Deep, old magic. And beneath it he could just sense something bright and pulsing. It felt like magic calling out to him, more than should be in a squib. Graves thinks of something he read about once, a punishment, used on unruly members of the magical community, long ago. A spell that kept their magic coiled up inside them. His stomach turns. He rests his cheek atop Credence's head and holds him tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, it's not _entirely_ angsty? *hides* come [find me on tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> And I want to thank anyone who's still reading <3
> 
> The line 'Well, you could get wetter if you laid down in the gutter.' is borrowed from The Blue Dahlia. It's kind of shoe-horned in, but I love it.


	9. too late for tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note i've changed the archive warnings for the time being as it was the only way I could figure out how not to spoil this and the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks go to [graves_expectations](http://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations) for looking this over for me and making some helpful suggestions :)
> 
> Chapter title from the 1949 film of the same name.

Light creeps across Graves's bedroom, over the windowsill, the floor, the bed, painting everything in dawn greys. It reaches Graves, who is propped on his side, watching Credence as he sleeps. Graves hasn't slept all night. 

Any other morning, Graves would sneak out to make breakfast and bring it back before he kissed Credence, gently, as he woke. But not this morning. He doesn't want to risk Credence waking up alone, even for a moment, and he has to tell him about that other spell. So, he waits beside him, instead, cherishing the minutes Credence remains ignorant in sleep. Peaceful, as Graves watches him. The rise and fall of his chest, his parted lips, hair mussed, one hand resting on the pillow beside his face. Gut-achingly beautiful.

Graves's fist clenches in his pillow as his gaze drifts along the red and purple on Credence's cheek. The bruise looks nastier in the light of day than it had last night. Mottled, and dark against his pale complexion. The cut on his lip has scabbed over. Maybe Credence will let him heal it, today, Graves thinks, as he gently runs his thumb over Credence's cheek.

'Good morning,' Credence murmurs, voice thick with sleep, as his eyes flutter open. 

'Morning, angel,' Graves replies, trailing his hand down to Credence's waist, squeezing lightly.

Credence shifts closer and tucks one hand under his face, slips the other under Graves's arm, around his shoulders. Graves does the same, pulling Credence flush against him, skin soft and sleep-warm. He wants to stay like this, always.

'Did you sleep well?' 

Credence nods, nose brushing against Graves's. 'For a moment, I thought last night, with you, was a dream,' he says, then adds, with a sleepy smile, 'A good one.' 

Graves smiles back, then leans in and presses their lips together for a brief, chaste kiss. He cups Credence's jaw, stubble prickly under his fingers. His stomach turns as he thinks of telling Credence about that other spell, so he puts it off a little longer and, instead, says, 'I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the Ilvermorny letter.' 

Credence frowns, like he'd forgotten all about it. 'It's OK.' He kisses Graves, again. 'I forgive you,' he whispers. 'You were doing your job, like you said.'

'Yeah, but you're...' More important, Graves wants to say, flushing when he realises it's true. He clears his throat. 'It's OK to be angry with me. I'll understand.'

Credence sighs. 'I don't want to be angry. Not with you, not right now.' Credence ducks his head, playing with the edge of the blanket. 'But don't...don't do anything like that, again. I couldn't...' He bites his lip as he trails off.

'I won't,' Graves says.

'Good,' Credence says, and, before Graves can tell him about the other spell, Credence is kissing him, again. He finds himself pushed onto his back, with Credence straddling him, a look in his eyes like he's surprised at himself, cheeks tinged a pretty shade of pink. Graves smiles up at him, runs his hands along his sides, over his back. Outside, the City That Never Sleeps is waking up, sounds of garbage trucks and honking horns drifting into Graves's room. Credence kisses Graves's neck, finding that one sensitive spot beneath his jaw, biting down.

'Fuck, that feels good,' he says, revelling in the sensation of Credence's lips on him, warm and soft, but then he remembers the spell. 'I want to talk...'

'No talking,' Credence says, kissing him on the mouth again. 

Graves smiles into the kiss, hands on Credence's waist. He sits up, one hand splayed over Credence's back to steady him, eliciting a pleased laugh from Credence. This new position, Credence spread over his thighs, Graves's back against the headboard, doesn't help his resolve. An image of Credence moving above him, sinking onto his cock, flashes in his mind. He presses his forehead to Credence's chest, breathing heavily through his nose. The musky, sweaty scent of Credence's skin does little to clear his head.

He grits his teeth and pulls back, looking up into Credence's face. 'Yes, talking.'

'Are you sure you want to talk?' Credence asks, rolling his hips. Graves groans, hands falling to rest on Credence's ass, squeezing, urging him on without thought. Credence's eyes are sparkling as he looks down at Graves, all sexy and coy. Hopeful and vibrant, even after everything that's happened to him. Graves's stomach drops. He doesn't want to wipe that look from Credence's face, doesn't want to let go of this moment, but he promised Credence he wouldn't keep anything else from him. 

'C'mon, we've got plenty of time for this, angel,' he says, and Credence's face turns serious, hips stilling, hands clenching on Graves's shoulders.

'What if we don't?' He says, voice like a string wound too tight. 'Just...what if we don't?'

'Hey, none of that.' Graves cups both hands around Credence's face, then pulls him in for a hug. Credence's heart beats strong and fast beneath his ear.

'Sorry,' Credence says, clinging tightly to Graves, arms around his neck. Credence's words sit heavily around them. Graves wants to believe they have all the time in the world, like anyone does when they have a new lover, but the shadow of Grindelwald looms over them, still. The spell, his connection to Mary Lou and Shaw, the fact that he's a seer. It all adds up to something that Graves isn't going to like, he can feel it in his gut.

Credence sighs, and trails his fingers along the back of Graves's neck. Graves's eyes drift closed at the touch, and they stay like this until Credence clambers off of Graves to sit beside him. He pulls the blankets up over them both. 'What do you want to talk about?' 

Graves steels himself. He takes Credence's hand, turns so he's facing him. 'I found a second spell on you, last night.' 

Credence blinks. He swallows heavily. 'Another tracking charm?'

'No, this was...' Graves rubs his ear as he trails off. He'd been thinking about it all night: that old spell, that archaic punishment, cutting witches and wizards off from accessing their magic. Could that be what he found? He can't be sure. 'I don't know what this was.'

Credence regards him with wide, hurt eyes. 'Why didn't you tell me last night? You just promised you wouldn't keep anything from me.'

'I know,' Graves says, kissing his hand. 'That's why I'm telling you, now. But, last night...You'd already been through a lot. I thought you could do with some rest. I'm sorry.' Graves has apologised more this morning than he has in the past year.

'Oh.' Credence's gaze softens, and he hooks his ankle over Graves's beneath the sheets. Looks at Graves like he hung the fucking moon. But then his expression grows troubled, again. 'Do you have any idea what it is?'

Graves sighs. 'I might...'

'Tell me,' Credence urges, squeezing Graves's hand.

'It felt like...' Graves runs his free hand through his hair. 'It felt like magic trapped inside of you.' 

'What? What does that mean?' 

'I don't know. There was a spell, a long time ago. A kind of punishment. It stopped people from accessing their magic.' Graves rubs a hand over his face. 

Credence's breathing grows ragged, quick. He slips his hand from Graves's grasp. 'Gellert did this to me, didn't he? Whatever it is?'

Graves can only shrug, helplessly. 'Yeah, I guess so.' Grindelwald has a lot to answer for, and Graves is looking forward to making him answer.

Credence lets out a low, pained noise. It hurts Graves more than when the security guard socked him in the jaw, last night. He takes Credence's chin in his fingers. There's not a lot to do until they know what they're dealing with. 'Look, how about we get cleaned up and I'll send a pigeon to my friend at MACUSA. See if she can get the healers there to look you over. That OK?'

Credence nods, mutely. He looks stunned and Graves doesn't blame him. 

Credence grabs his hand, again, as he's getting out of bed. 'Percival,' Credence says, holding his hand so tight it almost hurts. 'I'm scared.'

'I know, angel,' he says. He pulls until Credence is kneeling and wraps him in a tight hug. He wants to keep Credence wrapped in his arms, forever, safe from Grindelwald and everything else. It's been a long time since someone made him feel like this. For years, he thought he was running from it, but now he doesn't want to let it go. 'I know.'

__

The scent of bacon and eggs, sizzling in the pan, fills the air in Graves's small kitchen. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as Credence emerges from the bedroom in the clothes he wore last night. Graves had cast a cleaning spell on them while Credence was showering, but they're still a little rumpled. Another day, Graves would smirk at seeing Credence dishevelled, undone by his hand, feel a surge of pride. But, today, it only tugs at his heart as Credence tugs at the hem of his jacket. Graves thinks it's more from nerves, than trying to straighten it.

A loud crackle turns his attention back inside the kitchen, and he goes to the stove, removing the pan and dishing the eggs and bacon onto two plates, at the same moment the toast pops up in the toaster. It's a little dark, but edible. He doesn't have much of an appetite, and can't imagine Credence does either, but it's something to do while they wait to hear from Tina. Graves had sent her a pigeon, after he had his own shower, telling her a friend of his urgently needed to see the healers at MACUSA. He was vague on the details, but let her know it was to do with the Wilmer Jones case.

Credence quietly sits at the table, hands in his lap, head bowed. His hair is damp, curling at the nape of his neck, soft over his forehead. Graves runs a hand through it as he levitates the plates of breakfast to the table. Credence leans into the touch, eyes closed. 

'Hope you like your eggs over easy,' Graves says.

'Sure,' Credence says, picking up a fork, but making no move to eat. Graves sits in the chair next to him, resting one hand on his bouncing knee beneath the table.

He munches on his toast, takes a sip of his scalding coffee. 'Does this hurt?' He asks, gently tracing the outline of the bruise on Credence's cheek.

'It's fine,' Credence murmurs. The tone of his voice, the set of his shoulders, tell Graves that Credence doesn't want to talk about it, so he doesn't ask if Credence wants to be healed.

The weight of Credence's misery sits heavily on Graves. He almost wishes he hadn't told him about the spell, hadn't even found the damn thing. That they could share their breakfast without the mysterious spell hanging over them both. But that's a selfish thought. If there's any chance this spell is what he thinks it is, that there might be magic trapped inside of Credence, he has to know. And Graves can't be sorry he found it, if it means it can be put right. He just hopes it can, as he watches Credence poke at the fried eggs, barely eating them. Graves isn't able to stomach much more than a piece of toast and his black coffee.

Credence startles when a pigeon taps at the window. Graves rests a steadying hand on his shoulder as he passes. He opens the window and lets the pigeon in. He reads Tina's reply over and looks up at Credence, who is twisted around on his chair, watching Graves.

'Tina says we can meet her at nine.'

Credence pushes back his sleeve and looks at his watch. 'It's ten to, now.'

'Guess we should get going.'

__

The head healer at MACUSA is a slender woman named Sachiko Yamaguchi, black hair pulled back neatly under a snood, healer's robes swishing around her as she moves through the examining room. She directs Credence to sit on a table when Tina ushers Graves and Credence into the medical wing.

They had met Tina in the lobby and, after Graves introduced her to Credence – both taking an immediate liking to each other – he gave her a quick rundown on what had happened. The tracking charm Grindelwald had put on Credence, the other spell he can't identify. His suspicions that Jones was either working under orders when he killed Mary Lou and Shaw or playing the fall guy. How Shaw seemed to be mixed up in some kind of magical smuggling. Tina had taken it all in, face growing dark as she listened, before she led them through MACUSA.

On the way, with Credence tucked against his side, Graves had seen Abernathy walking towards them. The Director of Magical Security had stopped, eyeing the three of them strangely, gaze lingering on Credence, before he rushed back the way he came. It pinged something in Graves's mind, but he was too focussed on Credence, still is as Yamaguchi scrutinises the bruise on Credence's face. She asks if he needs it healed, but he only shakes his head. She makes a small noise, that may be of disapproval, but doesn't press.

'Are you OK?' Graves asks Credence as the healers ready themselves. It's a stupid question but Graves is desperate to fill the silence, desperate to ignore how the shattered look on Credence's face is breaking his own heart.

'No,' Credence says. 'But I'm glad you're here.'

Graves presses a kiss to his cheek and then lets the healers do their job. Tina waits by the door, arms crossed, foot bouncing. It grates on Graves's nerves but he doesn't say anything.

'You were told you're a squib?' Yamaguchi asks Credence who nods, clutching Graves's hand.

She writes something down, quill scratching, and they continue their tests. Casting spells, asking questions and even taking some of Credence's blood. He winces as it's drawn, and Graves rubs his other arm in sympathy, watches the healers work. The heavy scent of potions and tinctures hangs in the air, magical instruments whirring and buzzing.

When they are done, healer Yamaguchi looks concerned. She taps her quill on the parchment before her, reading it over, before she looks up. 'You're not a squib, Mr Barebone,' she says. 

'What?' Credence's eyes widen, eyelashes glistening in the white light of the consulting room. He blinks, brows furrowing, and turns to Graves, who runs a soothing hand through his hair. 

'Someone put a binding spell on you. It's stopped you from accessing your magic. It's quite old. We can't tell how long it's been there, exactly. Perhaps ten years.'

'Ten years? What does that...if I'm not a squib, what am I?' Credence sounds incredulous, bewildered.

'A wizard,' Yamaguchi says, sympathy etched on her face. She doesn't say anything else but Graves can guess from the set of her jaw that she is as disgusted as he is. He looks over to Tina, who is standing with her fists balled by her sides. 

Tina shakes her head and catches Graves's eye. 'How could anyone do that to another wizard?'

Healer Yamaguchi shrugs, jaw still clenched. The air is thick with anger and disgust. Credence makes a wet, choked sound in the back of his throat, arms hanging by his sides. Graves pulls him close, rests Credence's head on his shoulder. He presses a kiss to his hair. It's no wonder Ilvermorny never followed up on the acceptance letter, Graves thinks. But why would Grindelwald do this to a child? To anyone?

'Can you undo it?' Credence asks in a small voice.

Healer Yamaguchi says, 'Yes, but it's complicated. We need to look over the spellwork, make sure nothing we do will hurt you.' Graves squeezes Credence's arm as he nods, stunned, again.

Tina bites her lip. 'And you think Gellert Grindelwald did this to him?' She asks Graves. Credence is trembling against him, so he doesn't let go as he says, 'Yes.'

'But why? What has he gained?'

Graves shakes his head. He can't figure it, either. And then healer Yamaguchi interrupts them. 'Wait, there's something else here,' she says, looking over the chart an assistant has just handed her. 'There are traces of a siphoning spell.'

'What's that?' Credence asks, voice hoarse.

Graves tenses as Yamaguchi says, 'It's old magic. It was developed by dark wizards who wanted more power. They would literally siphon another wizard, or witch's magic, using the spell, absorbing it into their own. When done right, it's an endless source, as the magic in witches and wizards replenishes itself. Done wrong, and you would have been dead years ago, Mr Barebone,' she states, matter of fact, but gently. 'Whoever did this, they knew what they were doing.'

Credence lets out a choked sob and Graves holds him as he clutches his shirt and cries. If it was Grindelwald who did this, and it has to be, Graves is starting to see the picture of how it happened more clearly. Maybe Grindelwald approached Mary Lou, having found this child of magic among No-Majes, figuring he could use the extra power, and told her he could cure Credence. The Ilvermorny letter would have spooked her and she'd probably have agreed to anything. It's a theory, but it rings true, and it sits, cold and heavy, in Graves's stomach. Mary Lou let Grindelwald bind Credence's magic, take an essential part of him, and started the course of her own murder in the process. Graves supposes it's a kind of justice. 

'We'll let you know when we make progress on breaking the spell.' Yamaguchi excuses herself, leading her team of healers from the room.

'I guess we know what Grindelwald gained,' Graves says, looking at Tina over Credence's head. His words are short, and clipped.

'I should tell Picquery,' Tina says. She sighs. 'She's not going to like this.'

Graves looks down at Credence, who is staring blankly ahead, and says, 'Neither do I.'

__

Tina leaves them at a visitor's apparation point outside the Woolworth Building, a nondescript spot in an alley, charmed so No-Majes can't see it. She says she'll let them know when the healers think they can break the binding spell, and that she'll come by with a quiche from Queenie, later tonight. Graves thanks her and watches her leave, hands in his pockets. The sky is clear, today, but there is a biting chill in the air. When Tina is out of sight, he turns to Credence, who is silent and pale faced, arms hugged around his middle.

Credence hasn't spoken since healer Yamaguchi said there were traces of a siphoning spell found on him, and Graves can't think of what to say, himself. Nothing will erase the hurt and betrayal, as much as he wants it to. He takes Credence's hand, swipes his thumb across the back of it.

Credence squeezes his hand, then wraps his arms around Graves's neck, pulling him close. Graves goes willingly, revels in the comforting warmth and solidity of Credence in his arms.

'I'm so stupid,' Credence says, voice quiet and broken, head resting on Graves's shoulder. 'I thought he...I thought he cared about me.' He sniffles, pushes his face further into the crook of Graves's neck.

'No, angel, you're not,' Graves says, rubbing his hands over Credence's back, cupping one around the back of his neck. 'You're not stupid, he's just...men like him, they don't care about anybody else. Not really.' 

Credence pulls back and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. 'He stole ten years from me. And Ma before that...my life hasn't been mine since I was _born_.'

'It will be, from now on. I promise.'

'You can't know that,' Credence mumbles, gaze averted.

Graves gently lifts Credence's face, so he can look him in the eye but Credence only looks away. Graves sighs. He leans up and kisses Credence's forehead, then takes his hand, again. Credence looks about two seconds from breaking down, or breaking something.

'Can we go home, please?' Credence says. Graves's stomach flips when Credence refers to his apartment as 'home', though he probably doesn't mean anything by it.

'Of course,' Graves says, but then Abernathy rounds the corner. There is a determined look in his eyes that unsettles Graves.

'Mr Abernathy?' Credence says, frowning.

'You know him?'

'I met him at the Blue Mandrake,' Credence says, slowly, edging closer to Graves.

Things start shifting in Graves's mind. It's not strange, alone, that Abernathy should be at the Blue Mandrake, or that Credence would have met him. The Director of Magical Security is a renowned position, the kind that wins you friends in high places. But why has he followed them outside? 'Do you need something?'

'Healer Yamaguchi needs to do another test,' he adds, taking hold of Credence's arm. 'Come with me.'

'I don't want to do any more tests,' Credence says, pulling away from Abernathy. He crosses his arms over his chest, obstinate and not a little anxious, Graves thinks.

Graves steps forward. Something isn't right. He can feel it, somewhere around his bellybutton. Yamaguchi wouldn't send a man of Abernathy's position to retrieve a patient. Abernathy reaches for Credence, again.

'Get away from him,' Graves says as he reaches for his wand, but Abernathy is quicker and hexes him. There is a dull thud as his head hits the bricks, something warm and wet trickling down the back of his neck.

'Percival!' Credence cries. Graves reaches out for him but his vision is sparkling, going black around the edges. He groans. He has a severe sense of déjà vu. The last thing he hears before he loses consciousness is the sound of someone apparating.

__

A cool hand is pressed to his brow when he regains consciousness, and for a moment Graves thinks he is back in his office, the other night, with Credence waiting for him to wake up. But when he opens his eyes it is Queenie Goldstein, hovering anxiously, not Credence. Her usual sunny countenance has clouded but it brightens a little when his eyes open. The world is blurry, like vaseline's been smeared over the lens, but he can tell that he's in an office. Not his. It's too tidy. Must be at MACUSA.

MACUSA. Credence. They were outside, about to go home, when Abernathy hexed Graves, knocking him out. 'Where's Credence?' 

Queenie's brow knits and she bites her lip. 'He's gone. Mr Abernathy took him.'

'Fuck,' Graves says and tries to sit up. The room tilts on its axis. His head throbs. 'Ugh.'

'Teenie said Mr Abernathy's been working for Grindelwald.' Queenie hands Graves a potion. He takes it and his head clears, but his stomach is still in knots. 

Graves nods. He isn't surprised. The files on Jones that went missing would be easily accessible for the Director of Magical Security. He could just as easily help Jones escape, while leading him to his death. And a man with his job could help forge an alliance between an enterprising nightclub owner, and a No-Maj, like Shaw, looking for an easy way to smuggle contraband into the country. Abernathy's been on Grindelwald's payroll the whole time, and Graves has been too blinded by Credence to even look for it, let alone see it. But it's not the smuggling or the murders or anything else he cares about, now. It's only Credence.

'Does anyone know where Abernathy went?' He asks, standing. He pats down his pockets, makes sure his wand is still there. He's going to need it. He's heading for the door, Queenie saying that no one knows, when it opens and Tina Goldstein comes in. Her hair is coming away from where it's pinned back, falling around her face. She's pale and sweating.

'Have you found Credence?'

'Yes, um...' Tina wrings her hands. 'Picquery sent me to come get you.'

Graves's heart thuds hard and his skin prickles all over, too tight and hot. 'What is it?'

Tina shakes her head, eyes glassy, and behind him Queenie gasps. Cold dread fills Graves, but he follows Tina silently, lets her apparate them to a grimy warehouse. Seraphina Picquery is standing several feet away, with a small team of aurors. She says something to them and they nod and disapparate. She turns to Tina and Graves, hands on her hips, a look on her face that Graves doesn't like. Graves's gaze tracks down to her feet, where two prone forms lie. 

Everything feels like it's falling away, like the first time he apparated and he'd stumbled, legs shaking, heaving up his lunch. He can't hear what Picquery says to Tina, though he sees her mouth open. He shakes off Tina's hand, which is warm on his arm – is it his arm? He looks down and, yes, it's attached to him, so it must be his arm – and makes his way to just past Picquery.

He sinks to his knees.

'Credence,' he breathes. 'No.' He runs a hand over Credence's face. It's so cold. He looks like he's sleeping, like he did this morning, in Graves's bed. How could that have been just this morning? Tina rests a hand on his shoulder and he lets her. Gellert Grindelwald lies beside Credence, face slack and as pale as his hair. It rankles that he should be so close to Credence, now, and Graves shifts so he's between them, so he can only see Credence.

'I'm so sorry, Graves,' he thinks he hears Tina say from somewhere behind him. He can't tell, though, because something is clanging in his head, making his ears ring. He trembles all over, his stomach pitches, his throat tightens. He folds himself over Credence, and holds him tight, pressing his face to Credence's cold cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* I'm going to refrain from too many notes because I am a blabbermouth and I _will_ spoil the ending, but: 
> 
> As always, [I am on tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/), where you can come yell at me if you need to. ha. (or yell at me here if you will). I'm hoping the next – and final! - chapter won't be too long in coming. (So, yes, there is one more chapter, folks).
> 
> Oh, and [there is a soundtrack](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/165041270567/avada-kedavra-my-love-a-gradence-noir-au), now, if anyone wants to listen.
> 
> EDIT: gonna give you all a hint for the last chapter because I can't help myself: _Laura_ and _Gilda._


	10. dead reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're finally done! :O Thanks for all the comments and kudos along the way. :) Once again, the tags have been updated. 
> 
> Title taken from the 1947 film of the same name.

'Goldstein told me about your smuggling theory. Looks like you were right,' Picquery says. 'The auror team found traces of concealment spells, magical and non-magical contraband, the works, before they left'. She sighs. Her footsteps echo in the cavernous warehouse as she paces back and forth. 'This would have to happen in an election year.'

Tina gasps but disguises it with a cough. She is standing a few feet from Graves, a ball of light overhead casting her shadow over him. The windows are all dark, some boarded up haphazardly; no light shines in from outside.

Graves is still at Credence's side, knees splayed, shoulders slumped. He kneels in a filmy puddle, holding Credence's hand, cold dank water seeping through his trousers. The smell of oil and dark magic hangs in the air. 'Do you know what happened here?' he manages to ask, past the tightness in his throat.

'We think Grindelwald panicked when he realised we were onto him, tried to clear out the warehouse. We can't be sure how or why they ended up...' Tina's voice is choked as she trails off. She clears her throat. 'Abernathy must have tipped him off, but there's no trace of him, yet. Not since I saw him take Credence.' Tina's feet come into Graves's peripheral vision, but Graves can still only look at Credence. 'I should have...I should have stopped him but I saw you unconscious and...I'm sorry.'

Graves nods, mutely, only half hearing her. His ears are still ringing, blood hot in them, while the rest of him is cold. His stomach roils. He fights the urge to retch in front of Tina and Picquery. Or, worse, to cry. There is a yawning sorrow churning within him. As he looks at Credence it slowly curdles to a futile rage. But he can't direct it at the man who did this, because Grindelwald is dead, so, he turns it on himself. He should have kept Credence safe. He told him he would. He told him he would have his own life, now. But he was wrong.

'I promised he'd be safe.' He bangs his fist on the ground. It hurts, but not enough, not as much as the lancing pain in the middle of his chest. So, he punches the ground, again, and again, knuckles splitting, until Tina kneels beside him and takes his hand in hers. She heals his knuckles, thumb brushing the back of his hand.

'I'm so sorry, Graves,' Tina repeats. 'He seemed lovely.'

'He was,' Graves says as he runs his free hand along Credence's unblemished face. So lovely. Graves frowns. Unblemished. 'No bruise,' Graves says, leaning back on his heels. His hand hovers over Credence's face, where hours before there was the nasty reminder of Grindelwald's cruelty.

'What?' Tina says, still kneeling beside him. Picquery's heels clack over the concrete as she paces back to them. She echoes Tina's question. 'What do you mean?'

'There's no bruise. Grindelwald hit Credence last night, but there's no bruise.' He looks up, now, finally. Something like hope blooms within him. Tina is looking at him, eyes damp and confused. 'You saw it, Tina.'

'Maybe Grindelwald healed it?' Tina says, biting her lip. She straightens up, clasps her hands in front of her.

'And then killed him?' Picquery snorts. Graves appreciates her irreverence. It grounds him.

'I don't understand...' Tina says as Graves reaches inside his coat for his wand. He aims it at Credence and murmurs 'revelio', heart in his throat. It feels like it takes an eternity for the corpse before him to shimmer and morph into someone Graves doesn't recognise.

'It's not him.' He bolts to his feet. A tear escapes as he blinks, rolling down his face, hot and fat. He quickly wipes it away. 'It's not him!'

Tina's mouth hangs open. 'Who is that?' 

Picquery, elegant brow creased, draws her own wand. She casts revelio on the corpse of Grindelwald who, like the fake Credence, is not truly Grindelwald at all. 

'Guess we know why there was no trace of Abernathy,' Picquery says, dispassionately, gazing down at the body of her former Director of Magical Security.

Graves's heart jackhammers against his ribs. Credence is _alive_. He just knows it. This was all a ruse so Grindelwald could get away, somewhere, with Credence. He hopes it's not too late to find them. That he hasn't wasted too much time mourning a transfigured stranger.

'Ready a search team, Goldstein,' Picquery says, all business. 'Nicolai, O'Shaughnessy and Monteiro. I think we can trust them. But get your sister to vet them.' 

'Yes, ma'am,' Tina says, and disapparates.

Picquery turns to Graves, coattails whirling out around her as she spins on her heel. 'Graves, help me secure the scene and then you can come with me.'

'No way, I'm not wasting another second.'

'They could be anywhere,' Picquery says. 'If they are still alive.'

'Of course they are,' Graves says, gripping his wand tight in his fist, ready to disapparate. 'And I'm going to find them.'

__

The Blue Mandrake is eerily quiet, dark and still. Graves's slow footsteps echo through the front bar, syncopated with the blood drumming loud in his ears. A shiver runs through him as he makes his way to the main dining room, devoid of its usual fizzing patrons and glittering champagne. The bar seems desolate without Jacob's jovial countenance behind it, the stage dark and lonesome without the band, without Credence there singing. The light at the end of his wand reflects in the mirrors behind the bar, startling him. He spins around and his coat belt catches on a stool, but he catches it before it falls, heart racing. He takes a deep breath, and straightens up. Get it together, Graves, he thinks.

On the mezzanine, a light shines from Grindelwald's office. Graves's hunch must have paid off. When he left the warehouse, his gut told him to come to the Blue Mandrake. He had hoped that Grindelwald would have money that he needed to get, in person, before he left New York. Graves figured he would keep it close, and there's nowhere closer than the Blue Mandrake. As he approaches the office, he casts a muffling charm to soften the sound of his footsteps. He can hear movement inside.

He stops just outside of the door and peers around the frame. The first thing he sees is Credence, standing beneath the huge portrait of himself above Grindelwald's desk. The portrait is even more unsettling, tonight, but the sight of Credence fills the gnawing hole in Graves's stomach. Credence is breathtaking, as always, and, more importantly, he is alive. Relief, and joy, flood Graves. He wants to rush in, take Credence in his arms, and apparate them both far away. But he has to deal with Grindelwald, one way or another, or they'll never be free. He moves into Credence's line of sight, and gestures for him to be quiet. Then he notices that Credence is standing stock still, holding himself awkwardly, face serene. Imperius, Graves thinks hotly, as he runs his gaze over Credence, searching for any harm to him. Aside from the bruise that's still on his face, he seems unscathed. Physically, at least. 

But Graves's eyes widen when they land on Credence's hand. His long fingers are curled around a gun. A small revolver, like No-Maj detectives carry. His thumb twitches and Graves's gaze shoots back to Credence's face. His eyes seem wider. Is he fighting the curse? But they are blank, again, as soon as Graves notices. Wishful thinking, he guesses.

Grindelwald is standing not far away, back turned to the room, clearing out his wall safe. 'After everything I've done for you,' he says, as a stack of dragots floats to his desk, joining more coins and jewels and gold bars. 'You drug me and run off with that scruffy detective. That lush. Honestly, Credence, I thought I taught you to have better taste, at least.' He shakes his head. 'Well, you'll never see him, again, now that he thinks you're dead.'

Graves's fist clenches around his wand and his jaw tightens. He feels like he's been waiting a lifetime to do this. He raises his wand and takes aim, hitting Grindelwald's shoulder with a stinging jinx.

Grindelwald lists to the side and wheels around, shooting back. He narrowly misses Graves. 'My, you are tenacious, Mr Graves.' 

'That's one word for it.' Graves fires off a petrificus totalus, which Grindelwald dodges, so Graves sends a spray of dragots at him. Grindelwald shields himself, and shouts 'expelliarmus'. Graves's wand flies into his hand. It rankles to see it in Grindelwald's grasp. He should have just caught Grindelwald with petrificus totalus, first, but he had wanted to hurt him. Needed to hurt him. It was reckless, but it felt good.

Grindelwald tuts at him. He looks down at Graves's wand and raises a brow. 'Compensating for something?'

Graves smirks. 'No need.' He steps closer, keeping one eye on Credence the whole time. He could disarm Grindelwald without his wand, but, with Credence still under Imperius, and holding a gun, he doesn't want to take the risk. 

So, he tries to stall with words, not hexes. 'Picquery knows you're not dead. MACUSA will come looking for you. They know you killed those people, too. Abernathy, Shaw, Mary Lou. Jones.' Graves edges closer. 'It was all you, wasn't it?'

Grindelwald spreads his hands. 'I suppose you're going to tell me exactly how I did it all, and why, Mr Graves?'

Graves snorts. 'Not that kind of detective story, Grindelwald.' 

'Pity. Ah well. Perhaps I'll do it myself. I do have a captive audience after all.' He gestures toward Credence and then he hits Graves with a freezing charm.

It's like being in one of those dreams where you try to run, but your legs just won't do what your brain is yelling for them to do, no matter what. Except this is more like a nightmare, this is real.

'Should I start at the beginning?' Grindelwald moves to stand by Credence, who is still calmly holding the revolver, a glazed, faraway look in his eyes. 'How I saw visions of Credence, a powerful magical child, living with No-Majes. How I followed them to America, never certain if I would forge him into a weapon or merely take his power for my own? We both know how that dilemma ended. And when he grew up to be so handsome, I brought him into the world where he rightfully belongs.' Grindelwald runs his finger along Credence's jaw. Graves's stomach turns and he channels all of his magic into wearing the Immobulus down.

'Or shall I skip ahead, to Mary Lou's constant badgering, her demands for more money to aid her ridiculous, hateful cause.' Grindelwald shakes his head. 'She was a tiresome woman. I couldn't obliviate her completely, you see, or Credence would wonder why his mother no longer remembered him. No, she had to remember Credence. As long as she was alive, anyway. I did kill her myself, like you guessed. And then along came Jones, desperate, in debt. It was Abernathy's idea to use him as a scapegoat. He set it all up.' Grindelwald tuts. 'He was a moderately clever man. But his death is not much of a loss.'

The starry Manhattan skyline looks in on the scene through the wall of windows, on the far side of the office, as Grindelwald summons a decanter and a tumbler. He pours himself two fingers of whiskey. He sips it. 'Would you like one?' He asks Graves, pouring a second and levitating it to the end of his desk, just out of Graves's reach. If Graves could move. 'Now, where was I...oh, do you want to know all about Shaw? He was becoming too demanding, as well. These No-Majes can be arrogant, can't they? I could have obliviated him, but killing him was more satisfying.'

Graves grits his teeth. The Immobulus has worn off enough that he can move his face, but he keeps quiet. Wants to wait it out, just a little longer. See where Grindelwald is going.

'This is getting dull,' Grindelwald says, with a frown, and knocks back the whiskey, a crack in his usual composure. He turns to Credence. 'Shoot him,' he says and Credence's arm lifts. 

The barrel of the gun is aimed right between Graves's eyes. His blood runs cold. He pushes against the Immobulus with everything he's got and takes one halting step forward. 'Credence,' he says and Credence looks at him. Horror replaces serenity.

Graves's heart beats hard as he sees Credence fight the Imperius, hand shaking as he tries to move his arm back down. In a strangled voice, he manages to say, 'Please, leave, I can't fight it much longer...'

'I'm not going anywhere without you.'

'Why not?'

'I guess I'm in love with you,' Graves says, heart in his throat.

The gun falls and Credence sags. Graves hasn't seen many people fight Imperius, especially not someone who doesn't have access to their magic. He marvels at how strong Credence is, what a miracle he is, as he rushes to catch him. Credence smiles up at Graves, as he sets him on his feet. 'You mean it?'

'Yeah, angel,' Graves says, tucking a finger under Credence's chin. He leans in to kiss him, something he thought he'd never get to do again. He feels Grindelwald's gaze crawling over them, but kisses Credence anyway, brief and chaste.

'How touching,' Grindelwald says, with a sneer. 'It looks like I'll have to dispose of you myself, Mr Graves.' He kicks the gun aside. 'But I do so hate guns.' He twirls his wand then taps it on the palm of his hand. 'Never mind, the killing curse has served me well, so far.'

'No, Gellert, don't!' Credence yells and steps in front of Graves, arms open wide as if to shield him. Grindelwald throws Credence aside with a sweep of his wand. He hits the wall, hard, but not hard enough to break anything. He picks himself up, rubbing his arm, dazed.

Graves summons the gun. He aims it at Grindelwald. 'You know, I don't like them too much, myself,' he says. 'But I'll get over it.'

Everything narrows to his outstretched arm, the gun in his hand, Grindelwald standing before him. He doesn't give Grindelwald time for one last quip, or to back down, before his finger squeezes the trigger. The bullet whizzes through the air and a split second later it enters Grindelwald's forehead, leaving a small, scorched wound. He crumples to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut, eyes wide and blank. His face is as white as his hair. And red, deep red, all around.

The acrid scent of gunpowder, the metallic scent of blood, hit Graves's nose. It's been years since he's smelt them together. Graves's throat tightens and his eyes sting. His hand trembles. Distantly, he's aware of his grasp loosening and the gun falling to the floor with a loud clatter. His ears ring. And then someone is saying his name and there is a hand on his arm, turning him. It's Credence. His mind clears and he draws Credence to him, holding him tight. Credence trembles in his arms.

'I killed him.' Graves's voice is like gravel, crunching under your feet.

'Yes,' Credence says. 'You...you had to.' But he doesn't sound sure.

Graves shakes his head, swallows. He's not sure either. Was he just defending them, saving them, or avenging the wrongs Grindelwald committed against Credence. But then there are voices coming along the hall and he decides those questions can wait. Moments later, Tina and Picquery step into Grindelwald's office, wands at the ready. Graves dimly notes that they are alone, no search team with them. They must have split up. Credence pulls back, but still stands close.

'Mercy Lewis!' Tina says, hand flying to her mouth when she sees Grindelwald lying on the floor. Picquery merely stares at his corpse, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. 'That really him, this time?'

Graves nods. Before he can tell them what happened, Credence picks up the gun and holds it tight. 'I did it,' he says. 

'Angel, don't...'

'Did what?' Picquery says, stepping around Grindelwald's corpse.

'I killed Gellert.' Credence clutches the gun to his chest, eyes flashing in defiance. 'I, uh, I shot him.'

'You can quit being noble any time you like, Mr Barebone,' Picquery says, holding out her manicured hand for the gun, which Credence gives over with a look of confusion. 'A man can only die once, and Gellert Grindelwald was found dead earlier this evening, in a warehouse by the docks.' She transfigures the gun into a cigarette case with a flick of her wand. She tucks the case inside her coat. 'Isn't that right, Goldstein?'

Tina stands with her hands folded behind her back. She's still pale but there is a twinkle in her wide eyes as she answers, 'Yes, ma'am, saw it with my own two eyes.'

Credence blinks and Graves smirks. 'Thanks, Sera,' Graves says. He claps her on the shoulder, earning him a withering stare, then takes Credence's hand in his. 

Picquery eyes their joined hands and quirks a brow. 'What can I say? I'm a pushover for a love story,' she says, wryly, looking between Credence and Graves. 'Now you two go home. We'll clean up here.' 

Credence is frozen, mouth hanging open, as Tina and Picquery set about disposing of the evidence. Graves squeezes his hand and Credence finally looks at him, expression caught between horror and relief. 

'Percival...' Credence says, feverish, then takes Graves's face in his hands. He tilts his chin up, so he can kiss him. Finally, Graves thinks. There is everything in the kiss that they can't say, right now, buzzing and unspooling. Graves's hands fist at Credence's waist, wrinkling his already rumpled jacket. He moans as Credence's tongue slides against his, pulls Credence closer.

Picquery clears her throat and Graves pulls back to see her glaring at them, though there is something like fond amusement beneath it. Tina pointedly avoids looking at them, levitating the dragots and jewels back into the wall safe, the coins clinking and tinkling.

Graves slides his arm around Credence's waist and pulls him close to his side. He kisses Credence's temple and says, 'Let's go home, angel.'

__

Graves leans his head against his apartment door, one palm flat next to the tarnished brass numbers that read 206. The panelling is smooth beneath his skin, the doorknob cool in his shaking fist. As cool as the revolver had been when it slid into his hand. He won't forget the image of Gellert Grindelwald, crumpling to the floor, anytime soon. The gunshot ringing out. The smell. His stomach turns. Across the hall a door opens and closes, the sound muffled, like Graves is hearing it from under water. A hand lands on his shoulder and a soft voice says, 'Percival?' finally breaking the spell.

Graves shakes himself and lowers the wards before opening the door. Just like the night before, he lets Credence in ahead of him, illuminating the living room with a silent lumos, filling the sconces and the floor lamp with warm light. The suitcase Credence had brought with him still sits inside of the door. It's tan and has his initials embossed in it. Graves hadn't thought what Credence might have packed but, for some reason, he does, now. Wonders what Credence brought to start his life over. Graves runs a hand over his face. Focus. Keep it together.

Credence stands by the mantel, tracing a finger along the wampus statuette in the centre. It butts its head at the pad of his finger as he rubs between its ears, then it turns, prowling the length of its plinth. There are dark smudges under Credence's red-rimmed eyes, and his brow is furrowed.

'Are you OK?' Graves asks, hanging up his coat.

Credence turns to him and shakes his head. 'Not really. Are you?'

'I'll be fine, angel.' Graves avoids his gaze. An honest answer isn't something he wants to give, right now, even if he could.

Credence bites his lip. 'That's not what I asked.' He crosses the distance between them and curls his hands around Graves's biceps. 'I'm sorry.'

'What for?'

'That you got mixed up in all of this...I...' 

Graves presses a finger to Credence's lips. 'I'm not. I'm not sorry at all.' He pulls Credence to him, holds him tight, breathes him in. Credence is warm and safe and alive. But Graves will never forget the feel of that cold lifeless skin, the gut-punch of thinking Credence was dead for the longest minutes of his life. He kisses Credence, who clutches his shoulders, fingers digging in through his jacket. Graves fights to keep the tears that threaten to spill at bay. Thinks of everything that led them here, their constant collisions, their inevitability. He tightens his hold on Credence's waist, pulls their bodies flush together, eliciting a soft moan from Credence.

When they part, they are both breathing heavily in the silent room. Credence is looking at him with his dark, cat eyes. Those heartbreaking, honeyed eyes. Graves kisses Credence again, and then he turns on the radio. He needs something to drown out the static in his head, punctuated by the echo of the gunshot over and over, like the beat of a bloody bass drum.

He presses the heel of his hand to his temple. 'Do you want a drink?'

Credence nods. Graves pours more whiskey than either of them should be drinking, right now, into two glasses and hands one to Credence. His hand shakes as Credence takes the glass, and he quickly shoves it into his pocket, hoping Credence didn't see. He clears the stack of newspapers on the sofa and sits, pats the space beside him. Credence sits, too, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Graves collapses against the back, puts his whiskey down. It feels like he's lived months in just one day.

'How's your arm? You hit that wall pretty hard.'

'Hm? Oh, it's fine,' Credence answers, not looking at him.

The radio hisses as the dial slips; Graves fixes it with a non-verbal spell. He sighs. 'OK.'

Graves shifts closer to Credence. He eyes the curve of his back, and idly walks his fingers up Credence's spine, to rest at the nape of his neck. Credence huffs, and wipes at his face. Graves sinks his fingers into Credence's hair, soft and untamed. Credence makes a small, satisfied sound at the touch.

'Gel...' Credence trails off and swallows thickly. ' _He_ told me what he did with the bodies.' Credence sits up, and turns to Graves. He wonders when they will be able to say his name, talk about what Grindelwald did, what Graves has done. Credence sets his glass aside and takes Graves's hand. 'How did you know it wasn't me?'

Graves runs the back of his free hand along Credence's face, over the bruise. 'No bruise.'

'Oh,' Credence says, frowning, then realisation seems to dawn on him. His face pales. 'Oh.'

Graves can imagine what he's thinking. How close Graves was to never knowing that it wasn't Credence on the ground before him. How close they were to never seeing each other again. His throat is tight and hot and everything feels far away. He takes a deep breath and kisses the palm of Credence's hand. Credence isn't dead. He rests their joined hands on his knee, kisses Credence's cheek along to his jaw, nose brushing warm, living skin. Credence sighs. 

They sit like that, Graves resting his forehead against Credence's temple, revelling in the warmth that radiates from him, for long silent minutes. There is everything, and nothing, to say, jangling inside of Graves, like the wild cacophony of a big band. He swallows it all, focuses on the steady sounds of Credence breathing in and out. In and out. He places a hand on Credence's chest so he can feel the rise and fall, feel the beat of his heart beneath his trembling palm.

Credence turns and kisses him. He shifts closer, tangling his leg around Graves's. His lips are soft and dry. The singer on the radio croons about taking their lips, their arms, their best. Graves would happily let Credence take all of him, he thinks, as he swallows Credence's weary sigh. He hopes Credence wants to give himself to Graves in the same way. In every way. He deepens the kiss, but it is comfort, reassurance. There will be time for passion, later. 

Credence pulls away, eyes glassy with unshed tears. He blinks and one rolls down his cheek. Graves wipes it away. He could live a lifetime without seeing Credence cry again and it would still be too soon. 

'I'm not really sorry you got mixed up in this,' Credence says, in a cracked, wet voice. 'I mean, I could never be sorry we met.'

Graves smiles, now, a small, crooked thing. 'I know, angel,' he says, own voice hoarse.

Credence smiles back, then gulps half his whiskey, swallowing heavily. Graves sits back and drinks his own. It burns in his empty stomach. When did he last eat a proper meal? He should get them both something to eat, but he can't stomach the thought. He closes his eyes. As soon as he does he's back in that warehouse. He opens them, again, but he can still see it. That life shattering scene. It will haunt him his whole life.

He looks at Credence, sitting beside him, who is staring at the glass in his hands. He's killed for this man, Graves thinks. A week ago, he didn't even know him, but tonight he killed for him. And he'd do it again, without a second thought. 

But he's not the only reckless, protective one, here. He rests a hand on Credence's knee and squeezes. 'Why did you say you did it, angel? Why try to take the fall for me?'

Credence runs a finger around the rim of the tumbler clenched tight in his fist. He shrugs one shoulder, looking up at Graves from under the dark smudge of his lashes. His lips quirk and he says, 'I guess I'm in love with you.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [tumblr @gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/)
> 
> That's all, folks! I started working on this back in late February, or early March, so it's taken me the best part of the year to write. This fic is my baby and, though it's not that long, was a labour of love for me. I nearly threw in the towel several times but I stuck it out (largely thanks to a small group of cheerleaders – I'm sure you know who you are!) and I'm glad I did.
> 
> OK, OK...I _may_ write an epilogue, because I had to cut a second sex scene, that I just couldn't fit back into the narrative, and I'm still sad about that. ;) (And I have little scenes in my head for Private Auror Graves and his crooning songbird boyfriend's life post avada kedavra, my love...which will probably stay in my head). But, this main story is done! 
> 
> The search team last names are taken from 3 of my favourite films noir: O'Shaughnessy from _The Maltese Falcon_ , Monteiro from _The Phantom Lady_ and Nicolai from _In a Lonely Place_.
> 
> These lines were paraphrased from _Gilda_ : 'You can quit being noble any time you like, Mr Barebone', 'A man can only die once, and Gellert Grindelwald was found dead earlier this evening, in a warehouse by the docks.' and 'I'm a pushover for a love story'.
> 
> And the 'I guess I'm in love with you' comes courtesy of _The Big Sleep_. The apartment number 206 and wampus statue are also references to _The Big Sleep_ (Marlowe's apartment number, and to his panther statue glimpsed briefly, respectively. I feel like someone else wrote a wampus statue/figure that moved but can't remember who! morwrach and I couldn't be sure if it was in her wampus series, or not. Ha.)
> 
> In case you missed it:  
> graves-expectations [made this beautiful aesthetic edit for me](https://graves-expectations.tumblr.com/post/165149495633/im-a-shamus-graves-says-with-a-wink-credence) and there is [also now a soundtrack](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/165041270567/avada-kedavra-my-love-a-gradence-noir-au) (made by yours truly).


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